Let the Right One Slip In
by a perfectly healthy clown
Summary: Dead bodies surface, drained of their blood. A well-known Danish businessman goes missing (but everybody thought he was a bit strange from the start). And somehow, a new neighbor takes a liking to John Watson, who succumbs to dreams of snow, broken hands, yellow paint, and what exactly is at the bottom of the bathtub.
1. Eat

_this is a fic loosely based on the book and film of the same name. (well, the book and film are both called_ let the right one in _, but i included the word "slip" because of the morrissey song.) you don't need to read nor watch the film to understand what's going on (though, i would recommend it, because this book is one of my absolute favorites—actually, everything by john ajvide lindqvist has left a lasting impression on me, so i recommend him as an author if anyone wants to read some good horror)._

 _anyway! i'm hoping to update this, at least, once a week :) happy reading!_

* * *

No one sees them move in.

"Wanted it done at night, that's all they wanted," says the driver, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Seemed really important. I told them it would cost a bit extra, but they didn't seemta mind. They looked a bit posh, if ya ask me. Not the sorts that would live around here."

Pen against paper, a headache. "Do you remember who they were?"

The driver chews on the inside of his cheek in thought. "A man with a teenage girl—maybe, I dunno the exact age. Could'a been a daughter, but the bloke looked too young. Might'a been a niece or a sister. Whichever. The man was wearing a suit. I thought that was odd."

"A man wearing a suit was odd to you?"

The driver shrugs again. "Like I said: They looked a bit too posh to be moving into those flats. Did something happen?"

Pen against paper again— _scritch-scritch_. "Yes," Detective Inspector Lestrade mumbles, his nose wrinkled in distress, "something happened."

* * *

No one sees them move in.

It happens in the dead of night, only known by the driver of the moving truck and the whispers of autumn in the air. "I should'a thought it was strange," the driver tells DI Lestrade. "There weren't much furniture with 'em. Maybe they were gonna buy some. I dunno. They had a bed, though. Gotta have a bed." The driver laughs, and he will be the only one to laugh that evening.

Greg Lestrade blinks when he hears the driver's laughter. Sergeant Sally Donovan, on Greg's left, grimaces. "Oh, yes," she says, "gotta have a bed."

They are not having a good day.

* * *

No one sees them move in.

The building is not very well-kept—the inhabitants mostly in their early twenties and students at the nearby university. Music is always playing—softly during the week, loudly on the weekends; no one knows where it's coming from. Sometimes it sounds far away, and sometimes it's next door.

Frequently, people yell and cause chaos in the halls, but the tenants make do.

It's not as deafening on the fourth floor. The more serious students occupy the units here. This is where the man and the girl had moved.

Their new home is the flat at the end of the hall. When they had moved in, no one had seen them. When they had moved in, someone had heard them.

He's sitting on his bed, back against the wall, legs stretched out with a textbook across his lap. His feet are hanging off the edge of the mattress. If anyone were to walk into his room, they would assume the position is casual and expected with someone who is studying. But he is listening, his head tilted to the side, surveying the sound of something being dragged across carpet. It might be a sofa, or it might be a bed. Judging by the introduction of a voice, he assumes it must be a bed. "Are you sure you want it there?" He can't describe the voice. It is patronizing.

Then, a huff of air, and another voice enters, "I won't be the one sleeping in it." This voice is deep, yet small. Distant. It has traces of a foreign accent he can't place. He touches the wall, quickly retracting it as if burned. There is a knock on his bedroom door.

"Yeah," he says.

The door opens. "Hey, John, you got a highlighter?"

John takes the one from his side and tosses it. "Here, Mike."

Mike catches the marker. He closes the door.

* * *

No one sees them move in, but John Watson hears them move in.

* * *

It's morning. The light comes through John's window and lays a patch of warmth on the floor. A pile of dirty laundry is caught in it. Mike knocks at John's door again. "I'm not your mother," Mike says, and John rolls from bed.

In minutes, John is out of the unit, piece of toast hanging from his mouth, with Mike by his side. It's cold in the hallway and colder outside. Mike wraps a scarf around his neck, and John munches. "Ready?" Mike asks. John shrugs. The doorknob down the hall rattles, but nobody comes out. John and Mike go to class.

* * *

By noon, John is tired. He has an exam in one of his afternoon classes, but he doesn't remember the material he had studied the night before. On the corner of his paper, John doodles a rather impressive-looking sunflower.

* * *

By evening, John is still tired. His feet drag against the sidewalk, his fingers fumbling at the set of keys in his jacket pocket, trying to pick apart the correct one by touch alone. His head is kept low to the ground, watching a shoelace as it trails behind the rest of him, never stopping to fix it, just making sure he avoids stepping on it while he climbs the stairs to the fourth floor.

It's a Tuesday, so the music John hears is soft and very classical. On the staircase between the first and second floors, there are a group of five people with their notebooks laid out in front of them, pencils stuck behind ears: a study group. A girl with blonde hair tells John his shoe is untied. John says, "I know," and continues climbing stairs. There's a lift, but the unspoken rule around here is to never use it. No one informs John of this; it was already ingrained in the back of his mind when Mike suggested they room together.

When he turns onto the fourth floor, John runs into a man. Both he and the man grunt and rebound and proceed to dust themselves of the other. "'Scuse you," John says, and the man says, "Of course," in an uptight tone, and then John and he are moving right along, as if no interruption had taken place. It only dawns on John as he is pulling the set of keys from his pocket that the man he had run into is his new neighbor. John goes down the hall to try to catch another glimpse of the man, but he is gone. John returns to standing in front of his door, keys in hand, brows furrowed, confusion clouding his expression.

The doorknob of the man's flat unit begins to rattle once more. John is already inside his respective unit.

* * *

Sometime between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, a woman gets shot, a man is strangled, and the building is evacuated for a drugs bust. John and Mike stand on the road with the rest of the university students, shivering and talking shit about their professors. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees a girl, about the age of the other residents, sitting on the cold ground all by herself. Her hair is long, almost down to her waist, and colored with loose, black curls. She has an arm protectively wrapped around her stomach. The dress she is wearing is dirty, and she smells about the same. When the wind picks up, John has to momentarily stop himself from breathing in order to not smell her. Mike notices the odor, too, as do the rest of the people John is with, but everybody covers their noses, and nobody says a thing.

The girl's fingernails dig into the ground, pulling up grass and holding onto the clumps of soil for dear life.

* * *

More into Wednesday morning than Tuesday night, they are given the all clear to re-enter the building. The girl follows Mike and John to the fourth floor, her eyes watching the backs of their heads. John has goose bumps along his arms. He tries talking to Mike, to distract from the girl following them, but it's hard. The girl's eyes are piercing-blue, her face long and angular, and John doesn't know if he wants to drop to his knees to kiss her feet or between her legs.

Mike ducks inside first, leaving John to watch the girl disappear into the unit at the end of the hall. The man John had bumped into earlier is nowhere to be found.

"Hey, John," Mike says, holding the door open, "you all right?"

John hears the click of a lock. "Yeah, I'm great."

* * *

During the witching hour of Wednesday morning, John lies in bed and listens to the voices on the other side of the wall. The man had seemingly reappeared while John had slept; he is the one currently talking. "What are you talking about 'you had to leave the flat'? I told you to stay. Why do you never listen?"

"Why do _you_ never listen? I just told you what happened. If I had stayed in here, I would have drawn more attention to myself than need be. I called you. You said I could come in. You _know_." It's the same voice John had heard the first night, the deeper one. The conversation implies the filthy girl with the blue eyes and overwhelming stench is in possession of the deep voice with the strange accent. John thinks it interesting. He turns onto his side, facing the wall, almost willing himself to vanish and surface in the other room.

It's quiet for a moment, and then the man with the opulent voice begins to speak again, this time much softer. John has to press his ear to the wall in order to hear. "Did you empty the bathtub?"

The girl answers in an even softer voice, "Yes."

"So, I will need to go out _again_ tonight so you will be… well tomorrow?"

A long pause. The girl mumbles, "Yes," and John hears the tell-tale sounds of the man sighing and leaving.

There is nothing for the rest of the night.

* * *

John wonders what's in the bathtub.

* * *

John wakes up at a reasonable hour. He eats breakfast with Mike in the too-small kitchenette. "Have you heard anybody talk about the people who moved in?" John asks, stirring his cornflakes with his spoon. Mike has always been friendlier than John. "It looks like that man could go to university. I dunno about the girl, though."

"No one's talked about them," Mike says. He pours himself a cup of coffee. "As far as I know, we're the only ones who know they live up here." Mike laughs. John does, too.

* * *

The blonde girl points out John's untied shoelace again.

"I know."

John doesn't run into the man this time.

* * *

When it hits the weekend, the music grows louder, making it unable for John to concentrate on his coursework. Despite the noise, Mike stays in while John attempts to make friends with a group on the second floor. By morning, John's head is pounding, his lips are bruised, and he thinks he spent the night with a boy named James.

To embarrass himself further, John tries to shove his key into the wrong lock. The ritzy man in the unit at the end of the hall opens the door to look down at John with his own icy eyes and hooked nose. John gives a sheepish wave. "Wrong flat."

"Yes." The man doesn't move. John glances over the man's shoulder. Newspapers are scattered across the floor. Some look rather old. "I would advise you," the man politely scolds, "to go back to where you came from."

"Next door?" John points.

The man narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"You aren't very threatening." John smiles. Surprisingly, the man does, as well.

"Yes." He shuts the door in John's face, locks it.

John thinks about his bed and pushes his key into the correct lock this time. Mike is sitting on the sofa, eyes on the television.

"Had fun?"

"Loads." John goes to bed.

* * *

By Monday, John is back to being a functioning member of society. He goes to class, takes notes during the lectures, and even studies once he's back in his room the following evening.

John is highlighting key concepts in his textbook when someone knocks on the door. Since Mike is already in the sitting room, he answers it. "Hello?" Mike says.

From his room, John can't hear the exchange happening at the door, but he soon learns it isn't because he's in his room; it's because the person standing on the other side of the door hasn't uttered a word.

The bed creaks as John gets off it. He pokes his head from his room, glancing at the doorway, seeing Mike still standing there, one hand on the door and the other by his side. "Is there something you wanted?" Mike asks, ever patient.

John takes a step out, standing on tiptoe. The unkempt girl is there, in the same dress as the last time they had seen her. Tall, with little to no breasts, her face is streaked with something rusty, and her hair is knotted together in pathetic excuses for braids. She is staring at Mike, eyes wide, lips parted. It's a strange sight indeed; John can't stop himself from walking forward until he's standing right next to Mike. "Something wrong?"

The girl's head snaps toward John. Her pupils dilate, nostrils flaring, and then she's rushing down the hallway, back to the safety of her room, the hem of her dress flowing around her pale thighs. The door shuts with a loud slam.

"Well, that was something," Mike comments. He goes to close the door.

John stops him. "How about I go and see what all that was about, yeah?" Mike doesn't object, and so, that leaves John knocking on the man and the girl's door in nothing but his sweats and bare feet.

Before John raises his fist to knock, he catches the tail-end of an argument. The man is not doing a good job at not attracting attention. "What did I tell you about leaving? Why do you never listen to me?"

John knocks before he can discover an answer. When the man sees it is John knocking, his eyes roll, and he begins to shake his head. "I don't have time for this." And he shuts the door.

The girl was standing behind the man, timid, hands wringing at the end of her dress. She looked at John, and John looked back.

* * *

"I think he might be abusing her," John theorizes over breakfast. He's chewing on apple slices.

Mike snorts. "Why do you think that?"

"I keep hearing them argue. She isn't allowed to leave the flat. I don't know if he, if he hits her or anything, but he is restricting where she can and can't go, and that's abusive, right? That's gotta be abusive."

"Sure," Mike says, nodding. "Abusive, yeah."

John angrily chews.

* * *

John sees the girl again.

It's nighttime. Classical music plays from wherever again. John is heading up the stairs after grabbing a bite to eat from the vending machine on the first floor when he almost tramples her. She sits on the top step, an arm around her stomach again. Her hair is still in braids, and she still is in that dress. "Don't you, I don't know, ever change?" John asks, a bit rudely in hindsight. He quickly shakes his head. "I didn't mean, I mean I did mean, I mean, I don't know." His shoulders slump.

She eyes the bag of crisps in his hand. "You don't like the way I dress?" She asks this in such a way to suggest she genuinely doesn't know about changing clothes.

"Not when you wear the same thing every day, like a, a, a bloody cartoon character—no." He gestures vaguely as he says this, her eyes never leaving his hands. John notices this. He opens the bag of crisps. "You want one?"

Her fingers curl into her side, her arm acting as some sort of anchor as she holds herself together at the stomach. "I can't eat that."

John can hear her stomach growl from here. "Too greasy? Yeah, I know. I love them, though." He takes out a crisp and offers her the bag. It's original flavoring. Everybody likes original. "Are you sure? You look hungry." He doesn't tell her about her stomach. She might be insecure about things like that.

Her eyes widen, pupils doubling in size, as she gazes at John's hand—always his hand. Before John can say anything, she is leaping from the steps and fleeing up them at such a speed John could never accomplish, even after his years of rugby.

John climbs the rest of the stairs. When he reaches the place she had been sitting, the floor is already cold.

* * *

"Okay," John starts, "he is _definitely_ not letting her eat."

Mike cleans his glasses on his scarf. The wind blows. "John, stop."

* * *

John doesn't stop.


	2. Corner Bits

John swears he feels someone watching him. When he wakes up, he's alone, but his skin feels clammy, and he has trouble falling back asleep.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees those pale blue eyes—watching, watching, watching.

* * *

"Did you come in my room last night?" John asks Mike the next morning, although he knows it wasn't Mike's eyes he felt and saw.

Mike is fixing tea. "Oh, yeah, my pen ran outta ink. I borrowed one of yours."

John glares at the floor.

* * *

On Monday night, it snows, and by Tuesday morning, the ground is covered. John's and Mike's morning classes are cancelled. They spend the time outside with a few of the other students whose lectures were called off. It's beginning to snow again. John brushes the flakes from the blonde girl's hair, and she smiles. "Your shoelace isn't untied this time," she says, then offers her hand to John. "Mary."

John takes it. "John."

Mike throws a snowball at John's head. John and Mary team up, and end up winning when Mike is unable to see through his glasses. Mary throws her arms around John, and John hesitantly hugs her back.

* * *

John spends the rest of the day inside. As Mike busies himself with making them hot chocolate, John tries to weasel his way into getting some answers about the people who live in the flat at the end of the hall.

"Have you seen them at all?" John asks Molly, one of his biology classmates.

Molly twirls the frilly ends of her scarf with a finger. "No, I didn't even know we had new neighbors."

"I think I've seen that girl around," Mary says, shrugging. "She didn't look… okay."

Mike returns, passing out mugs of hot chocolate. "John thinks the man is abusing the poor girl."

John scowls and throws Mike a betrayed look. He grabs his mug and takes a big drink, ignoring the way it burns on the way down his throat.

Molly, fingers still twisted in the ends of her scarf, has her attention on the door at the end of the hall. At their spot on the floor by John and Mike's unit, they're in clear view of whoever decides to walk out. Molly's lips press together. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about them? I think they can hear us."

Mary stands, dusting herself off with a hand. "Let's move, then."

They're sitting in front of Mary's room now. The door is locked, and Mary forgot her key. "I'm sure Janine will be back any minute. Where were we? Oh, that's right, _abuse_." She winks at John. John wishes he could shrink three sizes and disappear in the confinements of his coat.

"John reckons he's not letting her go anywhere he doesn't allow," Mike says, "and he might not be letting her eat."

"I know what I heard, and I know what I saw." John holds out a finger. "I can hear them from my bedroom—the walls are thin—and he was getting upset with her for, for leaving the building for that drugs bust. And, and then, when I offered her some food a few nights after that, she got really… Well, she said she couldn't eat it, and then she just leaps up and dashes off." John is holding up two fingers, but quickly drops them when he runs out of evidence. "It's all very odd."

Everybody agrees. They all drink in silence.

* * *

"You never thank me."

"Thank you for keeping me alive."

John looks at the ceiling and tries to think of a reason behind this conversation, other than the abuse route.

After ten minutes of trying to fabricate, John goes back to sleep.

* * *

"Wait, he told her that?"

John rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Yeah, what do you s'pose it could mean? Other than the whole—"

"Abusing-Her-Thing? No idea."

John sighs.

* * *

John meets Mary's roommate, Janine, on Friday night. It's late, pushing midnight, and she is tipsy and the happiest person John's ever met. "Well, don't you look like a doll?!" She claps her hands and presses a loud kiss to John's cheek. With laughter edging her voice, she claps again. "You smell like a peach, too! Here, here… I'll get you something to drink."

Despite being the first to get wasted, Janine is the last to pass out. She's staying strong, keeping track of everybody like a mother hen. Her heels click against the ground when she walks by John, who is lounging on the sofa with an arm tossed over his eyes. "Oi," she whispers. As John peels away his arm, Janine is crouched beside him, setting a Rubik's Cube in his outstretched palm. "I heard you gotta figure out the corner bits first." She winks and leaves John to reapply her lip gloss.

John blinks, stuffs the toy in his coat pocket, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

He's out of it until Sunday night, and by then, Mike has dragged John back to their place, and has already gone out himself. Mike didn't write a note, so John can only assume he won't be gone for long. Rather than staying in bed and recovering some more, as Mike surely thinks he should do, John laces his shoes and goes outside. It's cold, but that's expected. John pulls up his coat collar and shoves his hands into his pockets. Before he can find a pair of gloves, he touches something cool, something sleek, and then he remembers the bloody Rubik's Cube from the night before. He sits on a picnic table and twists and turns the toy.

Legs swinging, John manages to get one side all one color—yellow. He remembers having one of these when he was a child, but he never was able to get any further than this. Frustrated, John goes to put the cube back into his coat. As he turns to shove the object inside his pocket, he meets blue eyes—the girl. She takes the seat next to John, her legs swinging, as well. The snow on the ground is no more disturbed than before, when John trekked through, so John wonders what time she arrived. He wants to assume she just appeared, but she has a thin layer of snow already on her frame and in her hair, which is better maintained today. It's swept behind and off her face, brushed and washed. She is wearing new clothes tonight—a gray turtleneck and blue jeans. "Do I smell better?" she asks. In her attempt at trying to tidy herself, she forgets shoes. Her bare toes wiggle.

Tentatively, John leans in, gives her a sniff. "Yeah, much better." Though, there's something else, hidden underneath all that clothing—almost like iron. John goes back to pushing the Rubik's Cube back into his coat, but her eyes fall to it, and he draws it out again, holding it toward her. "It's a Rubik's Cube," he says when she screws up her face in befuddlement. "Have you ever played with one?"

She stares at it, at the one side John managed to complete. "No, how do you play with one?"

"Well, you get all the sides one color. I, uh, heard you gotta do the corner bits first." John swipes his tongue over his lips and holds out the toy for her to take. "Here, you can try."

It feels like a decade passes before she reaches over and wraps her fingers around the cube. She holds it in one hand, holds it in two. It creaks and groans as she turns it. John can tell it's one of the knock-offs, then, not one of the brand-name Rubik's Cubes. Her nails are dirty, black embedded underneath. John quickly looks away, down at their legs. He stops swinging his, but she is still going. "You can, uh, keep that," John says, "if you want. I mean, it isn't really mine, but I think it is, but it doesn't matter. You can keep it, if you want." He's licking his lips again, his cheeks pink from stumbling over his words.

"I don't know," she says, her voice thick with that accent John is still unable to decipher. "When do you want it back?"

John blinks. "I don't care. Um, tomorrow?" She seems smart. If he is right about that man keeping her from going wherever and whenever she wants, then she should be able to solve the puzzle fairly quick.

She completes a side. Her fingers tap against it in an arrhythmic manner. "I may not be here tomorrow."

John furrows his brow. "The day after tomorrow."

"I may not be here the day after tomorrow."

"Whenever you want, then," John says, at a loss for words. Her situation might be worse than he once thought. A light from the apartments behind them turns on, causing John's attention to turn toward it. When he realizes the light is from the room at the end of the fourth story, John's face pales; and when he figures out the silhouette pushing back what seems to be a curtain is the man, John jumps from the table, much to the girl's dismay. She stares at him, frowning, her fingertips still dancing across the edges of the toy without looking at them. "I think, uh, I think you're needed inside." Why is he so scared? Why is he shaking? John watches her.

She rotates and sees what John sees. Soon, the man moves, the cover ghosting back over the window and exiling all light. Her shoulders drop. John can read reluctance in her posture. "Walk me back," she says, and she looks at John, and John finds it difficult to reject her.

The door to her unit is already open by the time they reach the fourth floor. The man is standing outside the door, arms rigid at his sides. He's wearing another suit, looking like he has somewhere to be that isn't here. He doesn't move until the girl sweeps through the door, head down, not meeting his eye. The man says, "You can come in," before he catches the sight of the Rubik's Cube in her hands, but if he disapproves, he is silent about it. Instead, he's thanking John. His face is full of disdain, as if the act of thanking someone gives him great pain.

"No problem," John says, narrowing his eyes.

Getting the impression a simple "thank you" will not suffice, the man continues, "My brother tends to… attract the company of dangerous men. I am grateful you are not one of them… on first impression." And then, he's walking back inside the unit, John absently following him, eyes automatically glued to the curtain he saw the man stand at earlier. However, it isn't a curtain; it's newspaper. The newspaper on the floor, from before, is now spread across the walls, the windows, in some form of wallpaper. John sees the girl—the boy?—sitting on the floor, in front of the refrigerator, playing with the Rubik's Cube, preoccupied, smiling.

The man closes the door in John's face.

* * *

"She's a boy," John says the following morning. "The man she—he—lives with called her—him—'my brother'. That must mean she—he—is a boy, right?"

Mike walks back into his room.


	3. Nothing

"You know what?" the driver says, his finger raised. "Come to think of it, there was somethin' else quite peculiar about them."

DI Lestrade readies his pen. "Yes?"

A dramatic pause. "They had to be invited in."

Greg Lestrade is tired. He wants to go home and lie in bed and never get up for the next five years. "Uh-huh?" Greg slowly nods, angling his notepad and pretending to write. "Had to be invited in, you said?"

"Yes, yes." The driver rubs his chin. "Why didn't they just walk in?"

"Because that would be rude?"

"Nah." Greg follows the driver's hand as he waves away the apparently fathomless possibility. "It was peculiar." He goes back to rubbing his chin. Greg clicks his pen.

Sally walks into the room. Her face is lively, but her eyes are dead. "More coffee?"

" _Yes_."

* * *

John tries again when Mike emerges, dressed for class. "Did you hear what I just fucking said?"

"I tried not to," Mike says, moving around John's knees from where he sits on the counter, perfectly posed as _The Thinker_. "You weren't making much sense, mate. Have you gone to bed at all? You don't look well."

John's eyes feel dry, like he can scrub sandpaper across them without making a difference. He doesn't tell Mike this. He doesn't tell Mike he's been up all night trying to listen to the voices on the other side of the wall either. He also doesn't tell Mike he was unsuccessful in doing so. Instead, he shakes his head and tells Mike, "I'm fine. So, did you hear what I fucking said?"

Mike pours milk into his bowl of cereal. "Go to bed, John."

"I have class."

In no time at all, John's face burrows in his pillow and spreads his snores throughout the flat. Mike leaves with a promise to the sleeping beauty Molly will take good notes during lecture.

* * *

It snows more. John dreams of bathtubs filled with yellow paint. He dips his fingers inside, stirring the paint with only the tips, as if his fingers are paintbrushes. The paint is cold, chilling him to the bone. His mind is blank, no consequences, as he plunges his arm into the tub, up to his elbow. The tub appears to have no end, until John touches something.

He doesn't flinch. He presses down harder, the thing underneath him giving way with a loud crunching noise and a bubble popping. John watches as two of his fingers float up to the surface. It's so cold, he hardly noticed. He presses down even harder. More crunching noises, and then his palm is flat against the end of the tub.

Waiting, nothing happens. John lifts his arm from the yellow paint to find he's removed a heart from the tub. Perhaps there was a body underneath the paint and in the cold. Nothing else bobs to the top of the makeshift bathfill.

John squeezes the heart. It pumps in his hand. The doorknob rattles. It rattles, rattles, rattles.

John wakes with a start, sweat lining his skin with an icy film. His head hurts, and his arm feels as if it might crack open and break before his eyes.

Mike is standing there, beside his bed. Molly is here, too. They both have the same wide-eyed stare above the tight wrappings of their scarves around their mouths. Mike is the one who woke John, who shook and shook and shook him.

"What?" John asks.

Molly glances at Mike. Mike speaks. "You were mumbling in your sleep. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

John pulls the blanket over his head. "I'm fine." He would like to know what exactly he had been mumbling, but if he asks Mike, there's no guarantee a reply will be given. Mike will say it's nothing to worry about, maybe even discard it with the rest of the bullshit John says lately.

"I'm fine," John repeats.

"He's gone," Molly mumbles.

John pokes out his head. Molly is the only one still in the room. Her hands are hidden in the frilly ends of her scarf. She's picking at her nails.

"I wasn't specifically talking to Mike."

"Oh." Molly doesn't meet his eye. "I left my notebook on your desk," she says. "You can text me when you're finished or if you have a question, and I'll pop right back up here." She nods.

John settles against the pillow. The outside light reflects off the snow on the ground, casting onto the wall he shares with the two strange neighbors. It doesn't look safe to touch.

"Mycroft," Molly says, breaking the silence that fell between them. "You were mumbling, 'what's his name, what's his name'. It's Mycroft—the man next door. I ran into him this morning, clumsy me, and knocked papers out of his hand. Renter's papers, I think. It had 'Mycroft' on them." Molly pulls a loose thread from her scarf and wraps it around her index finger. "I didn't catch the last name, because I was… well, I was apologizing and trying not to cry."

"Mycroft." The name isn't welcome in John's mouth. "Did you happen to find out his brother's name?"

Molly's face screws up. She blinks. "Brother…?"

"The… person living with him." John is afraid he might have disclosed something he shouldn't have.

Molly thinks for a moment. "Oh, you mean the one who wears the dresses? No, I don't know their name." Molly looks flustered.

John pushes away the blanket and sits on the edge of his bed. "Thank you, Molly. I'll text you later."

* * *

Mike is in his room. All signs point to him being able to hear John pull the shower curtain back and forth too many times. Mike is in his room.

The curtain swooshes on the hooks—back and forth, back and forth. Every time John reveals the tub, he expects to see the yellow paint and his fingers as bath toys. It's sad to think he doesn't feel safe taking a shower in his flat.

John debates not taking one today, but then his skin crawls with old sweat and fears, and his hands flip the dials with a mind he has little control over.

When he steps in, the water is warm. It isn't for long. John is cold. He's cold, he's cold, he's cold.

* * *

Someone is at the door.

John wraps himself in a pair of sweats and three pairs of socks. His hair is damp and dripping chilled down the length of his neck. "Mike?" he calls.

"Got it." Mike is on his way to answer it.

John's stomach churns. He can't tell if it's hungry. He pulls on another pair of socks.

"Okay, uh, I'll get him. Wait here," John hears Mike say from the sitting room. He knocks on John's door. "It's for you."

Although Mike finds it ridiculous how many layers John has on, he keeps it to himself. He does, however, express something almost smug and intuitive.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" John heads to the door.

He expects to see Molly, who he texted about fifteen minutes ago. If not Molly, then he would think it'd be Mary, the blonde who somehow manages to catch John when he's climbing up the stairs to tell him his shoes are untied.

Except it isn't Molly or Mary. It's his new neighbor. They're wearing a wavy black skirt today, paired with a camisole with lace at the top. The tank makes it very known they do not have breasts. It hangs loosely over their torso, dipping low enough to see collarbone yet no cleavage. Either way, John thinks the outfit looks quite lovely on them.

"What is it?" John asks.

They aren't wearing shoes, but that's predictable. They don't smell bad either. John can't hear their stomach growl. "May I talk to you?" they ask, hands behind their back and blue, blue eyes on John. "Will you come with me?"

Clearly they don't want this conversation to be heard by someone like Mike. Mike, who typically isn't nosy, is hovering in the room behind John. John gives Mike a look over his shoulder. "Why can't you say it here?"

"I don't want to." And then, they're disappearing down the hall. John hurries to throw on a coat and his shoes before running after them.

John is taken outside. They're already on a picnic table, legs swinging. As he's dropping next to them, John wonders if they're cold. He goes to ask, but they are turning toward John and holding out the Rubik's Cube. The arm is steady, and in their hand, a completed Rubik's Cube rests.

It's been a day—one day, a single day, one whole day. John is amazed. "That's fantastic. How did you manage it?"

His answer is a shrug. John takes the cube and starts inspecting each side, sure he would find some of the stickers raised. It's genuine, though. Nothing was peeled and pressed back into place. "Fantastic," John repeats.

"D'you know you do that out loud?"

John's cheeks flush pink. "Sorry. I'll shut up."

"No, it's… fine."

Awkward moment aside, John goes on with his compliments. "How did you do it? I've never been able to do it."

"You said to do the corner bits first."

John tilts his head. "I did, didn't I?" He huffs out an air of amusement, shaking his head right after. "How old are you? I haven't been able to solve this. I think I'm older than you." He blinks. "Not, like, age determines intelligence or anything like that. Ignore me. Actually, don't. I still want to know how old you are."

They fidget on the tabletop. Their toes bury in some snow on the bench in front of them. "Nineteen," they finally say.

"Must have just turned nineteen, then," John comments, unable to notice how uncomfortable they are now.

"I've been nineteen for a while."

"Oh, I don't believe that." John stares at the Rubik's Cube some more. He wants to break the harmony of the colors, but he's scared he might not be able to return it to this pleasant stasis. "Is that why you wanted me out here? To give me back this? You could have given me this inside, where it's warm."

Their eyes widen, and they force a shiver. "I apologize."

Despite how little clothing they have on, they don't seem bothered by the cold. John finds this strange. His other questions come to mind. "What's your name?" He stares at them as he asks this, wanting to seem friendly, nice, interested. He hasn't been much of that recently. "I'm John."

They don't reply right away. It mimics the night before, when John began to grow worried they wouldn't take the Rubik's Cube from him.

"Sherlock."

John is satisfied with this, and he doesn't know why. He goes back to the cube in his hands. "Sherlock." It sounds a lot better than the brother's name. He says this next. "And your brother is Mycroft?"

"Yes. Unfortunately." Sherlock laughs, then abruptly stops, seems to remember something. "Where did you hear that?"

John narrows his eyes. "Just… around… My friend."

Sherlock is quiet for some time. Snow begins to fall again. It lands in the French braid plaits their hair is styled in. "John," they say, followed by a pause. They might want to test how common a name John sounds in their foreign accent, although they continue after this. "Would you still talk to me if I wasn't a girl?"

John runs his fingers along the yellow side of the cube. It matches the color of the paint in the bathtub. "Yes."

Sherlock considers this. "Would you still talk to me if I wasn't a boy?"

John looks at Sherlock. "Yes. It's all fine."

Sherlock's eyes are wet. They blink, slow, careful. "Thank you." The voice that hits John's ears is soft, something John never heard before.

The wind begins to pick up. When John shivers, Sherlock does, too. It's more natural. "I have probably been rude, and I know assumptions are bad, so care to enlighten me…?" John plays with the cube, twisting the same section back and forth, back and forth. "What are you?" It might come out insensitive, but Sherlock isn't annoyed.

"Nothing," they respond immediately. "I am nothing."

"Nothing," John murmurs. He likes the sound of that. "Also… what are… your pronouns…?" John stumbles over this inquiry. His cheeks threaten to turn pink for the second time tonight.

"He," Sherlock whispers. "I know it doesn't make sense." Sherlock means the way he presents himself. John shakes his head and hands back over the Rubik's Cube. Sherlock takes it with no hesitation. "What is this for? You wanted it back tomorrow. Today is tomorrow. Why are you giving it back to me?"

"Birthday present," John decides. He shrugs. "A late one… or something, what have you."

Sherlock drops his hand in his lap. He is greatly affected by the small gift. His eyes are wet again, but he doesn't blink the tears away this time. "Thank you."

In this light, in the cold, in the snow, at this very moment, John wants to kiss Sherlock's cheek. He doesn't. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Sherlock rises, fingers curled around the toy. "Yes. Tomorrow." He jumps from the table and vanishes inside the building.


	4. Icicle

Mike acts like he knows something when John comes back inside. Snow is melting in John's hair, shivers taking over his body, and the first words that leave his mouth are "You gotta problem?"

And Mike presses his lips together in a poor attempt at concealing a smile. "No."

John goes to bed.

* * *

He doesn't dream. He isn't disturbed.

* * *

Morning classes are cancelled. John sits in the hallway with Mike, Molly, and Mary again. Mary's friend tags along with them today. He's creepy, with dark eyes and an unpleasant smile, but he bought them coffee and donuts, so no one declines his company.

John almost wishes they had, but then he takes a bite from a powdered donut, and he forgets about the prolonged stares from the dark eyes.

"So," Mary starts, finishing a sip from her coffee, "have any new theories for us, John?"

John wants to go deaf. He wants to erase Mary's existence.

He wants to gorge out her friend's eyeballs.

"Um, no," John says, shaking his head and wiping powder from the corner of his mouth. "None at all. I'm… on empty. What about you, Mary? Since you… brought it up?"

She tilts her head. "Oh, I have several." She doesn't say anything else.

Her friend pipes up. "What're we talking about?"

"The neighbors," Mike says, pointing a thumb at the door at the end of the hall. "Two people. We don't know what to think of them." Mike doesn't look at John. John shoves his face with more donut.

"One's a bloke. Dresses in suits all the time—you might get on with him, Jim." Mary winks. Jim's face doesn't change expressions. She continues, "And the other one is this mangy little girl. Well, not really little. She's tall, wears dirty clothing all the time."

Molly cuts in before John can. "Not a girl," she says.

Mary turns to her. "A boy, then?"

"Not a boy," John says. Molly looks at him. Mike, Mary, and Jim do, too. John doesn't like being the center of attention.

"You told me it was a boy." Mike furrows his brow. "Said the bloke used 'brother'."

"Yes, I was wrong. Please don't use 'it'."

"'It' is bad," Jim says. John glances at him, but Jim isn't staring at him for once.

"I'm sorry. It came out."

"It's fine." John's fingers dig into the side of his coffee cup. "'He'… Use 'he'. Can we talk about something else?" Suddenly he doesn't feel like talking about much of anything right now.

Jim snorts. "Why? I find this very fascinating. Who are they? What do they do? You said they lived over there?" Jim points, lowering his hand when Molly nods in response. Jim's thumbnail is bruised, like he smashed it in a door the day prior. He bends the thumb as if it still hurts. "Do you dare me to knock on the door? Say _hellooo_ to the new neighbors?"

Everybody, even Mary, begins to shake their heads. "Please don't, Jim," Molly begs, gathering the ends of her scarf in her hands—a defense mechanism.

"Why?" Jim stands, dusts himself off. He's wearing too fancy of clothing to be sitting on floors all morning. "Are they _murderers_? Are they going to _hurt me_?" He steps around stretched-out legs, ignoring the pull of weak fingers on his trouser cuffs and the pleading for him to come back.

At this moment in time, classical music is playing somewhere on the second floor. It's loud, going up the stairs until it rests on the fourth-floor landing. As if by accident, Jim seems to pace his steps in time with Rossini. It should be funny, but nobody is laughing. Their eyes are wide, their breath caught in their throats. Molly looks as if she might burst into tears.

Jim knocks on the door—two short raps.

No waiting. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, opens the door.

No waiting. Mycroft's face contorts into something repulsive, something outrageous. John can't tell how Jim is taking this; John only sees the back of his head. "Hello!" Jim says. His head goes side to side; he's swaying, rocking on his heels. It's almost sickening. "May I come in?"

Mycroft somehow manages to look even more disgusted. One of his eyelids even twitches. "No," he hisses, "go away," and he shuts the door in Jim's face. That, at least, he and John have in common.

Jim spins on his heel, hands raised in the sign of surrender. "Is your hearts racing, or is that just mine?"

No one says a thing.

* * *

Someone knocks on the door.

John opens it. He won't admit he runs to the door to prevent Mike from getting to it. Despite this, Mike isn't suspicious. He's working on an essay, bent over his laptop, blind to John shuffling toward the door with round eyes and a hopeful grin on his face.

It's dark, nighttime. Sherlock is wearing the same black skirt as yesterday. He's pulled on a blue hooded sweatshirt for this occasion, but neglects to wear shoes again. "Hi, John," he says.

"We're not going outside, are we?" John teases. He wouldn't mind sitting outside, now that he thinks about it. Though, his preference is to stay inside. It's cold, and snow has fallen for hours now.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No."

They sit in the stairwell, Sherlock somehow balancing himself on the railing, and John staying with the security of a stable ground beneath his arse. It's better than the picnic table. Sherlock still swings his legs, the hem of the skirt flowing around his thighs. John focuses his eyes on other things. After nearly ten minutes of silence, Sherlock is the one to start a conversation. "A man knocked on our door this morning," he says. John closes his eyes. "He asked to come in. Mycroft didn't let him in. Do you know him?"

"Not, like… personally, no. He's Mary's friend. Frankly, I think he's bloody frightening." John rubs his hands, his knuckles. "Have you seen his eyes? He just… stares at you."

"People stare." Sherlock curls his toes. John wonders if Sherlock is used to the stares. "Some people have eyes you cannot forget."

 _Like you_ , John wants to say, but that's something from a damn romance novel. He isn't about to set himself up for rejection. Instead, he asks about Mycroft. "Does he always look like that? Or does he know Jim from somewhere?"

Sherlock turns his head, a slow tilt. "How did he look?" he whispers, as if Mycroft's appearance is a secret. John tries to recreate how Mycroft appeared at the door. He ends up making a fool of himself and laughing. Sherlock studies him, blank expression never wavering. Slowly, he turns his head back around. "No," he whispers, fingers tightening on the banister, "he always looks like that."

The way Sherlock says that doesn't sit right with John. He doesn't pry. "So." Sherlock sways lightly. John's heart should be leaping in his chest, his legs urging him to stand and pull Sherlock from danger; however, Sherlock is the definition of elegant. He's careful, delicate, like dust. John clears his throat. "So," he tries again, "where are you from? You have a, a, an accent. I mean, everybody has an accent, but you… you… It's definitely foreign." _A mess_.

Sherlock smiles.

"I am originally from Sussex." His smile grows. "Surprised? Yes, I'm from England. My family moved to London when I was young. I call London my home. I'm sure you understand."

John doubts Sherlock. Why would someone lie where they're from, though? "Your brother doesn't talk like you."

"Of course not. He's a prick."

John snorts. "Funny. But, no, seriously, you two don't… _Sherlock_."

Sherlock wraps an arm around his stomach. As he laughs, he leans back, and not once is he scared of tipping off the banister and falling down four flights of stairs. John wonders if it would be quicker to fall down the stairs than the elevator shaft. He doesn't want to find out.

When Sherlock recovers, he wipes his eyes. Apparently, John is hilarious. "I know, I know, I know." Sherlock inhales, calms himself down. "Sweden," he admits, hints of laughter still present. "We moved to Sweden when… well, when I was young."

"First, you move to London when you were young, and now you're saying you moved to Sweden when you were young." John props his elbow on a knee. "Which is it?"

"We moved a lot," Sherlock quickly replies, side-eyeing John, as if to make him feel guilty for asking such things. John does feel guilty. He isn't one to poke holes in Sherlock's story. "We moved once more," Sherlock says, continuing to eye John, daring him to comment, "back to London. Here I am." Sherlock waves his arm, flourishing, proud.

John rolls his eyes. "Here you are."

More silence.

"Where in Sweden?" asks John.

"Blackeberg," answers Sherlock. "In Stockholm."

John knows about Stockholm. "Was it cold?"

Sherlock gets off the banister, sinking into the spot beside John. "Always. You know the snow we have here? It's worse over there. Schools didn't close. We walked in the snow. I ice skated a lot."

"I would have liked to see that." Would Sherlock have worn dresses while he was ice skating? It must have been cold. Sherlock never gets goose bumps. His skin is pale, adapted to the chill. John furrows his brow. "How old were you when you moved to Blackeberg?"

Sherlock stands. He goes up the stairs. "I don't want to talk about this."

John doesn't follow. If he wants to, he needs to run to catch Sherlock. As John is going down the hallway, he sees the door at the end of the hall close. Should he go down there? Should he ask to see Sherlock? Mycroft might answer. John won't be intimidated if it comes to that.

John knocks. Mycroft answers. Sherlock is nowhere behind him. Newspaper still decorates the walls and windows, acting as curtains to block out the sun. Every door John can see is closed. He frowns.

Mycroft chuckles. "Good to see you, too, John." And he shuts the door.

Mike is at the table, typing away on his laptop. "Almost done with this paper," he says, as John walks in. "Want to go out with Molly and the others later?"

"Sure," John says, not thinking to ask who "the others" would be. He goes inside his room and sits on his bed.

Mycroft knows his name.

John won't be intimidated. He won't, he won't, he won't. It's simple. He heard, eavesdropped. Sherlock told him. Sherlock… Sherlock talks about him? Sherlock talks about him.

Scuffles in the sitting room, the sliding of a chair, the closing of a laptop, Mike finishes. "John?"

John throws on appropriate clothes, laces up his boots, and shoves a wool cap over his head. "Mike."

* * *

"The others" are Mary and Jim. They started the day together, and they're going to end it together, as well.

They're drinking. Jim doesn't partake. "I'm a lightweight. You wouldn't like me that much."

Jim stares, only stares. John tosses drinks down his throat to dull Jim's intense eyes. For a second, John thinks it might have been Jim who crept in his room to stare at him while he slept, but the eyes were blue and much different from the ones currently sending warning signals throughout his body. John ignores it, has to. He has to.

"There's been another murder!" a man at the bar yells, his hand rising into the air to gesture to the telly. Glasses are knocked over and shattered. No one cares.

"Another murder, another murder, another murder," the patrons begin to chant, fists pounding against tabletops.

Molly is interested in the details. She tries to listen, fails. Mike pulls up the article on his phone. "Under the ice," he says. "They found the body under the ice. Some kids found it."

"Under the ice!" someone overhears and begins to shout. "Oh, the poor children!"

"Icicles for the children!"

Mary orders them another round. "Thank fuck," John mumbles.

They get back to the flats before curfew. Mary hugs John for far longer than he expects to be hugged. She's warm, her coat soft. John welcomes it. He even welcomes the kiss she presses to his lips. He gets lipstick on his face. He doesn't welcome that.

Jim is staring at him again. He disappears into Mary's flat, after her.

"Goodnight," Molly says once they reach her flat, hiccupping.

Mike unlocks the door. John is unsteady on his feet, not trusting his hands either. "Wait here." He trusts his tongue.

" _John_."

"Fuck off, Mike." With his fingers running along the wall as a form of guide, John walks, one foot in front of the other, toward the unit at the end of the hall. He knocks once, and then twice, about to knock a third time when the door opens. Sherlock is there, looking… not particularly lovely. He's different from their meeting earlier in the evening. Dark circles are under his eyes, his cheeks hollow, and his plaits knotted and frizzy. John swallows. "Sherlock."

Pale eyes crawl down his face, to the lipstick on his mouth. Sherlock's stomach growls. It sounds like an animal. He closes the door without a word uttered.

Silence. Not for the first time that day, and certainly not the last, John feels guilt attaching itself to his esophagus. It won't leave, no matter how hard he scrubs and scrubs.

John is more sober now. He wanders back to his flat. Mike stands in the middle of the sitting room. He hasn't drunk much. "What are you doing?" he asks. "What is he to you?"

"I don't know." John rubs his knuckles into his eyes. "I don't know."

* * *

John doesn't see Sherlock for the rest of the week. He sees Mycroft. Mycroft doesn't see him. He walks with his chin raised, his nose in the air. His suits are nice, and he doesn't concern himself with anybody below him.

At night, John curls in his bed and faces the wall. He listens. He breathes. Mycroft talks of the bathtub, of their next meal. Sherlock needs to eat. The sounds his stomach screamed were worrying. John debates on going next door and fixing him a meal. Mike says this is a bad idea.

"You're a terrible cook."

"I'm decent."

John sees the boy named James on Friday night. He lets James take him over the edge of the sofa. John needs it. It's awful, but he needs it.

On Saturday, John and Mike stay in and watch bad movies.

Someone knocks on the door.

John jumps to answer it before he can catch himself. Mike watches him, keeps his lips zipped shut.

John sees no sense in hiding his excitement. He opens the door.

His face falls, his shoulders drop, everything comes crashing down. "Janine…?" He takes a step back.

Janine, with pretty purple nails and perfect hair and shiny lips, has tears in her eyes. She looks more panicked than anyone John has ever seen. "Oh, John, Mike, I don't know what to do."

Mike joins John by his side. He is unnerved by Janine's visit, too. "What's wrong?"

Janine's hands shake. "There's something wrong with Mary."

Mike and John step into their shoes and follow Janine.

Down the hallway, the doorknob rattles.


	5. Winner

The doorknob rattles, rattles, stops.

"What have I told you?"

Slide, slide, a body backs into the door.

"You never listen. _Tsk_ , _tsk_. Shall I cut off another finger?"

"No, no, no, please—don't, don't. What will your—?"

"Do _not_ bring him into this."

Slide, slide. Silence.

* * *

The driver's face is white, his eyes like dinner plates as they gaze at the pictures set before him. The one he's particularly set on is the man with blue skin and white irises. The tip of his nose is gone, frozen off. On his neck, a long, curved red smile looks at whoever is willing or, in the driver's case, forced. All the blood is gone from the body. His fingers tremble. "Are ya… are you tellin' me they did this?"

Greg Lestrade leans against the wall, Sally in the seat across from the driver. She pulls her hair into a loose ponytail, leaving Greg to answer. Her own face is pale from exhaustion and nausea. "We don't exactly have any confirmation right now, so… no; we're not telling you they did this. We think they did this. There's a difference."

Sally's lips purse.

"What did I do?" the driver mumbles, beginning to hyperventilate. He grips the table. Greg goes to get a trash bin and a paper bag. "Who did I help move in that night?"

Sally weakly smiles. It provides no comfort.

* * *

No one sees them move in.

Mycroft holds his hand, the grip tight and warm from his leather gloves. It is cold, the wind biting into Mycroft's already pink cheeks. "Don't touch anything," he whispers, out of the driver's earshot. The moving truck has only a bed and an old recliner. Most of their possessions are in the bags slung over their shoulders. The driver stands with his hands on his hips and observes, shaking his head.

"Will I be able to touch anything?"

"Yes, in the flat. Don't be smart," Mycroft sighs, annoyed.

"Says you."

" _Sherlock_." Mycroft shuts his eyes.

Sherlock's face splits into a wicked grin. He shoves his face into the big scarf around his neck, muffling his voice. "Counting back from ten?"

Mycroft squeezes Sherlock's hand, a vise grip. "You're acting like a child. Wait here. Do not move." He lets go of Sherlock's hand, leaving it to freely breathe and regain the flow of blood. Sherlock curls his fingers once, twice, and does not move.

He is an abominable snowman, white legs and face peeking from the confinements of black clothing. Mycroft insists the large coat is needed. "I know you only wear the same clothes every day to piss me off," Mycroft told him, "but, please, for the love of God, dress ordinary for this. We need to blend in." Sherlock blends in. However, the driver stares a lot. Sherlock isn't wearing trousers, though a skirt does fall to his knees. His feet are covered with boots. Mycroft says they are "in style". Sherlock thinks his feet look big in them. He plans to not wear them again. His head is bare, his hair long, curly, and freshly cut with a fringe that will take weeks to reach his eyebrows. Mycroft doesn't like it. Sherlock doesn't care.

Sherlock believes the driver stares to wonder if he is cold. Most would wonder the same. When the stares continue, longer and longer each time, Sherlock grows uncomfortable. This is one of the times where he isn't thankful for being able to pass as a cis woman.

Mycroft takes his hand. "He wants to know if you're single."

"Tell him I'm twelve."

"I did."

"Can we come in? Did anyone say?"

"Yes."

They walk into the building. Nobody is out. All is quiet. No one sees them move in.

* * *

"It's ugly."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like for me to get a different one? It would be difficult to find another flat with two baths."

Sherlock looks at the floor, working off his boots. His toes immediately spread into the carpet. "I take it back," he says. "The carpet is soft."

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

They place the recliner in the sitting-room-and-kitchen combo. First, it's next to the refrigerator, then Mycroft slides it to a back wall. There will be a television resting in front of it by tomorrow. For the bed, Sherlock and Mycroft drag it into a room, knock it against the wall. "Are you sure you want it there?" Mycroft asks, condescending.

Sherlock sighs. "I won't be the one sleeping in it."

For the first time that night, Mycroft smiles. "Quite."

* * *

They prepare the bathtub at dawn. Sherlock sits on the tile floor, unclothed, eyes on Mycroft as he holds his wrist over the porcelain. Blood drips from a cut on his wrist. "It won't be a lot," Mycroft says.

"I know."

Mycroft continues as if Sherlock didn't speak. "Tonight, I will find something more suitable for you. I would like to find two—one for the tub and another for your feeding. However, I will promise nothing, and you will do your best to not get your hopes up." He wraps his wrist in a towel, holds it there for a minute before disinfecting the wound and slapping gauze on it. Sherlock watches him do this with flared nostrils and a headache. "In you go. I would suggest lying on your stomach."

Sherlock climbs in, lies on his stomach.

Mycroft drops the mattress from the bed on top of the tub. The light disappears. Sherlock sleeps.

* * *

In the morning, Mycroft checks the locks on the door. He shakes and twists the doorknob.

* * *

"I think the lock will hold," he tells Sherlock, as he straightens his tie in the bathroom mirror.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's voice is quiet. He is sitting in the tub, awake, mattress propped along the wall. It's getting dark. He has gotten up an hour or so earlier than usual. "I think I can hold off another day."

"No, you can't. Try to open the door when I leave."

Sherlock does. He can't open it.

* * *

When the drugs bust happens, Sherlock sits on the grass outside and plots his suicide. His stomach hurts, and his hands are stained from pulling the stopper from the tub. He hides his nails in the soil. It's cool and offers little support.

He follows two boys back to the fourth floor. He wants to jump on each of them. He wants to hear their necks break.

Sherlock goes into his unit, locks the door, and calls Mycroft.

* * *

"There's a boy next door," Mycroft says. "He tried to enter our flat this morning. He was hung over; there's no need to worry."

Sherlock drops to the floor, next to Mycroft. He pulls his knees beneath him, tugging on his hair until the tangles disappear. "Are you putting newspaper on the walls again?"

"Sherlock, don't be obvious." Newspaper sits in front of Mycroft, some torn, some still in readable condition. It doesn't take much to figure out what Mycroft intends to do with them. Sherlock reads an article from the eighties, chewing on his thumbnail.

* * *

Sherlock visits the boy next door. It doesn't go well. Mycroft is furious. He opens the door for Sherlock and begins to shout.

The boy knocks on their door, but Mycroft shuts him out. Sherlock catches his eyes. They are dark blue and beautiful.

* * *

While in Sweden, Sherlock gets sick. His skin boils at even the faintest glimmer of sunlight. His lips crack, his throat burns. Mycroft never leaves his side.

In those days, Mycroft is squeamish. He isn't now. He slices into his skin and fills a sippy cup without a second thought.

In those days, Mycroft learns how much blood he can give before he becomes light-headed. In those days, Mycroft's first emotion is guilt. In those days, Mycroft doesn't like killing people.

It's second nature today. Mycroft never dirties his suits.

"I will find him, baby brother," Mycroft says, lighting a cigarette and staring at the wall with expressionless eyes.

"I have no doubt you will."

"It's my fault. I should have kept a closer eye on you."

"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft."

"No." Mycroft smokes. Rings leave his mouth.

"He's in London, isn't he?" Sherlock asks. "I suspected he was when we left in such a hurry."

Mycroft doesn't look at him. "I will get him." Ashes fall from the cigarette's tip. "He isn't set to leave for another week."

They have a television in their flat. It's turned to a cartoon Sherlock vaguely remembers from his childhood. The volume is down to mute. "You will get him," Sherlock agrees. "And I will kill him."

"I will kill him." Mycroft turns his head. "We both will, in our own ways."

Sherlock enjoys the sound of that.

* * *

Sherlock never once asks how long they are planning to stay after they're finished.

* * *

For only a minute, Sherlock sits on the windowsill, fingers and toes clinging, and peers into the neighbor's window. He sees the boy from next door sleeping, twisting and kicking in his slumber. Sherlock returns to his own flat before he's noticed. The wind is cold, but Sherlock is made for scaling buildings.

* * *

Charles Augustus Magnussen is, in simplest terms, a businessman. He reeks of undeserved achievement. He walks with a swagger no one understands, and has a mind full of information that can fill an entire palace. His hands are moist, and his eyes are empty. He ruins everything he touches and touches everything he shouldn't.

As of now, Charles Augustus Magnussen is expected to be back in Denmark in a week's time. All of his conferences finished the night before. He stays in a hotel and keeps to himself, not causing any trouble, always watching, studying.

He only goes out at night.

He doesn't see during the day. He doesn't see, he doesn't see.

He doesn't go out tonight.

* * *

Sherlock ties his hair into damp plaits. He smells of luxury shampoo and sharp peppermint.

In the sitting room, Charles Augustus Magnussen is lying defenseless on his back, his hands and legs bound. His eyes are open and don't react to anything. His glasses are off his face, a deep bruise on his cheek. It will disappear come tomorrow night.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whimpers. He drops to the floor, knees weak. He's going to scream.

Mycroft is on the recliner, one leg draped over the other. He has been here for a while. "You never thank me."

Sherlock blinks away tears. "Thank you for keeping me alive."

* * *

Sherlock feels like he's an idiot for not knowing about a Rubik's Cube. The boy is kind and patient. He shows Sherlock how to shift the sides and make the different colors move around. "I, uh, heard you gotta do the corner bits first," he says.

Sherlock is hesitant to take the cube from him. He's supposed to give it back tomorrow. "I may not be here tomorrow," Sherlock says, because there is a dangerous man in his flat, who Mycroft is so sure won't do anything funny.

"The day after tomorrow," the boy says with his eyebrows furrowed.

"I may not be here the day after tomorrow," Sherlock says, because there is a dangerous man in his flat, who Mycroft is so sure won't do anything funny.

Sherlock doesn't mean to make the boy upset. His situation is temporary. He doesn't deserve anything permanent. He tells himself this as they walk back into the building. _You do not need him_. _He is only a boy_. _You will kill him_. _He will kill you_. _He does not like you_. _You will kill him_.

"You can come in," Mycroft says, and Sherlock does. All the doors inside are closed and locked. Sherlock touches a doorknob as he passes, giving it a shake. He hears mumbling from the other side.

The cube is rickety in his hands. It creaks with each turn. Sherlock leans against the refrigerator and does the corner bits first.

Mycroft isn't pleased. He closes the door, and is now standing in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips. "What is that?"

"You of all people should know." Sherlock's fingers tap along the yellow squares. "It's a Rubik's Cube—a puzzle. He gave it to me. Is that a problem?" Sherlock never raises his head. Mycroft's eyes will be harsh and unwanted.

His voice is delicate. "No. It isn't a problem."

"Good," Sherlock whispers. He squeezes the cube.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock returns the Rubik's Cube to John—John, whose name is ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. He tells John he is nothing, and John tells him it's all fine. John gives him back the Rubik's Cube—a birthday present. Sherlock cries.

They agree to see each other again tomorrow. Sherlock is unsure what he and John are.

* * *

"His name is John," Sherlock says, as Mycroft is fixing him a cup of blood. The blood is from a man Mycroft threw into the river after draining him. He almost got caught. Mycroft managed to come back safely.

"John," Mycroft ponders, an amused smile on his face. He passes over the blood. Sherlock drinks it, gulps, refreshed.

* * *

Magnussen is missing a finger. Mycroft is holding it in his palm, fingers spread and putting the finger on display to Sherlock. The skin is pale. Blood is absent. "Did he bleed?" Sherlock asks, head tilting. He sits on the recliner, legs crossed and holding his feet.

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "Do you bleed?"

"If I am not invited in, you know that. We bruise."

"'We'?" Mycroft closes his fist, hiding the finger from view. "Are you finally accepting it?"

"I've always accepted it."

Mycroft gives him a look, but doesn't say anything in regards to Sherlock's lie. "Would you like to see him?"

Someone knocks on the door.

Mycroft gives Sherlock Magnussen's finger before answering the door. With the finger in his hand, Sherlock is powerful. He has always been powerful, but having the finger of his assaulter in his grasp channels the strength in new ways. Sherlock can do anything. He will scream, and everyone will hear him.

He listens for Mycroft. The exchange at the door is over quickly. When Mycroft reappears, Sherlock says, "Well, how was that?" but he regrets it as soon as the words meet eardrums. Mycroft looks disgusted, horrific, and underneath it all, he's scared. Mycroft is never scared. Sherlock thinks the world is about to end, which is illogical to think, but he does. "Who was that?" he asks, voice lower than a whisper. Never has he been more frightened of the neighbors overhearing.

"A friend of _John_ , I presume. He was out there, along with three others, so clearly they are, at least, acquaintances."

Mycroft isn't telling Sherlock everything. "Who was that?" Sherlock repeats, getting up from the recliner. Magnussen's finger is cold in his hand.

Something passes over Mycroft's face. Briefly, Sherlock thinks Mycroft isn't going to tell him. Mycroft heads back into the room with their guest. Sherlock follows. "Mycroft."

"Moriarty," Mycroft answers, keeping the door open for Sherlock to join them. The room is void of all, except for their guest of honor, currently sitting on the floor, propped against the wall. "Jim Moriarty." Mycroft crouches next to Magnussen, who is gazing at Sherlock with narrowed, calculating eyes. Sherlock's skin crawls. "I thought you would have killed him." Mycroft speaks to Magnussen now. "It's improbable to believe you would allow him to grow into a young man after he was unsuccessful in killing Sherlock when they were children. He killed Carl, though, but you didn't want Carl."

"Regardless, I had Carl, and he was good." Magnussen's lips form a sick smile. Sherlock shuts his eyes. "And I had your parents, and I had your baby brother, and they were _delicious_."

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. He stands there, shivering in his skirt and hooded sweatshirt, because of a man he desperately wants to harm. Mycroft takes the initiative and slices off another finger. Sherlock hears the sharp intake of breath, the hiss of teeth, and the quiet drop of the finger to carpet. "Shut up," Mycroft says, calm as can be. Sherlock wishes he could be like him, then hates himself for thinking such things.

"You can take off all the fingers you want, Mycroft, but that won't kill me." Magnussen is panting. Sherlock turns his back on them. "And you can take Jim and do the same to him, but that won't kill him."

Sherlock's stomach churns.

"You turned him," Mycroft says.

"Yes, a newborn. Turned him when I came back to London with you two… right on my heels. He's one of us now—well, not _you_ , Mycroft. It's a shame dear Sherlock never bit you. You do smell quite good."

Magnussen's hand is missing two fingers. Mycroft takes a third. He picks the two from the floor, grabs the knife, and captures Sherlock's arm in a tight pull, tugging him out the room. The door closes. Mycroft locks it. "What are we going to do about Moriarty?" Sherlock opens his eyes. His stomach still hurts. "He's going to, to, to—"

"We're not doing anything just yet," Mycroft interjects, taking Magnussen's finger from Sherlock's fist and moving into the kitchen. Side by side, he neatly places the fingers on a counter. "If I were you, I would be worried about who else might not be who they seem to be." With the knife in hand, Mycroft begins chopping the fingers into little pieces. He might as well be cutting an onion.

Sherlock sits back in the recliner, pulling his legs to his chest. "You're talking about John."

"Was I?" Mycroft drops the fingers in the garbage disposal.

* * *

John doesn't know anything about Moriarty or anything about Sherlock.

"So, where are you from?"

It's embarrassing, the way John handles the conversation. Sherlock tells him, might have told him too much. Sherlock is an idiot. He ends their meeting. John follows.

"Don't answer the door," Sherlock tells Mycroft, but Mycroft does anyway. Sherlock ducks into Mycroft's bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The mattress is new, comfortable. Mycroft sleeps peacefully. He doesn't snore. The other mattress is old. It was Mycroft's when they were in Sweden. They aren't in Sweden anymore.

Mycroft taps the door with two of his knuckles. "John wanted to see you."

And Sherlock wants to see him. Instead, he shakes his head and offers no reply to Mycroft.

* * *

That night, John knocks on the door. Lipstick is on his face, his eyes unfocused.

Sherlock closes the door.

* * *

Sherlock's stomach has never ached this much before in his life, yet he doesn't let Mycroft feed him. "I'll be fine," he says.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You smell like you're dying, Sherlock. At least let me refill the tub."

Sherlock doesn't allow this either. He looks ahead, at the wall, until Mycroft leaves him.

* * *

Sherlock isn't fine. He doesn't see John, but neither of them really goes out of their way to try to see each other. Is this the end? If this is the ending, Sherlock doesn't like it.

On a Thursday night, with loud pop music playing and the chorus being paired with tenants' laughter, Sherlock picks out the person who marked John.

Mycroft is sleeping during this. On the landing between the first and second floors, a group of students sits and studies. They have notebooks on their laps and pencils in their hands, but they're doing more talking than studying. Sherlock remembers the shape of the lips John had on his own. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to match them to a blonde girl flipping through note cards. Moriarty sits next to her. Sherlock hides from his line of slight.

Near midnight, the study group breaks apart. "Let's go get something to eat," the girl suggests. "There's a twenty-four-hour diner not too far from here."

"I'm not hungry, Mary," Moriarty says.

 _Mary_. "You're never hungry!" she says, then laughs. Sherlock has heard this laugh more than once in his life. If he knew this was her, he would have silenced her much earlier. "You can watch me eat _again_ , then."

"I'll catch up with you."

Mary goes outside, bundled up in her coat and scarf and wool cap. And Sherlock follows, bundled up in nothing but unwarranted jealousy and John, John, John in his mind, his ears.

Sherlock is good at scaling buildings, but he's better at climbing trees. His fingers and toes bend around bark as he heaves himself up the branches. Along the way, he finds birds and insects. They scurry away. He is not their friend. It hurts to know nature considers him an enemy.

He watches from a distance, his eyes and mouth weeping at the sight below him. It's ridiculous, how he's acting. Irrational. Mycroft is more capable at getting him something to eat. Sherlock's veins are humming, though, filling his body with renewed confidence and skill. With his fingers planted into a branch, holding him steady, Sherlock wiggles his haunches and prepares. He hasn't done this for a while, only when he was a newborn, still ignorant and unwilling. Trouble followed him. Mycroft always cleaned up after his baby brother.

A single intake of breath, and then he flies. The tree branch breaks. He lands on top of Mary. It's messy. He shoves her to the ground, unforgiving. She hits her head on the hard snow, forcing a coughing fit. "Who…?" She doesn't recognize him.

 _Good_.

Her scarf is in the way. Sherlock rips at it, tearing the blue fabric in two. The neck below him is warm. The carotid artery is there, singing in time with Sherlock's toxic one. His teeth dig into her neck. He misses the artery by centimeters. The blood flowing into his mouth floods his brain, causes him to groan and slurp noisily.

Mary puts up a fight. She rolls, feet kicking, screeching for help. Sherlock gets the upper hand. He presses his palm to her face, shoving, shoving, shoving, until she makes no sound and breathes no breath.

His tongue runs along the teeth marks, catching the blood he misses. He bites into her neck again, this time in her jugular, and gnaws and sucks and licks.

Feeding from a live human is much better from what Mycroft gives him. This is warm, beautiful, and thriving. Unlike when he drinks from the sippy cups, Sherlock loses all control of his other senses. There is only smell, taste, smell, taste, taste, taste. The sippy cups compose Sherlock. He can see. He can't see now. He can't see the person running toward him and raising their leg and kicking him in the head.

Sherlock grows dizzy. The fog fades. He's lying on his side, his face oily and his body sore. His muscles are overworked. His head feels heavy. Mary is in the snow, blood dripping from her neck, her breath coming back to her in loud, uneven gasps. Someone is leaning over her, talking, their hands gathering her scarf to wrap around the wounds on her throat. Mary's blood is black.

They turn their head. They lock eyes with Sherlock. " _You_."

It's Moriarty. Sherlock is on his feet and jumping into trees and onto buildings long before Moriarty can touch him, not that he would. Mary is trying to talk. _Big mistake_ —for him, or for her? Sherlock doesn't look back.

As he hoists himself onto windowsill after windowsill, he debates on seeing John, on crawling into his room and sleeping next to him.

Sherlock pounds on Mycroft's bedroom window.

Mycroft is disorientated and very, very disappointed. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

Sherlock licks his lips, tasting Mary. "I won."


	6. Toby

Jim sits on the sofa. Janine waves him away. "Pay him no mind."

Mike and John try. Jim's eyes are hard to ignore. "Where's Mary?" asks Mike.

Janine shows them.

In her bedroom, the curtains are drawn. It's dark; no one can see a thing. Janine knows the flat's layout by memory, but John and Mike have to grope around and make sure they don't hurt themselves. "Turn on a light, maybe?" John suggests. Mike sniggers.

"She doesn't want the light on," Janine says, ever a good friend. She stops walking. Mike and John stand beside her.

Mike glances about the room, squinting and trying to pinpoint Mary, who is nowhere to be found. All is quiet. "Where is she?"

"In the closet." Janine has calmed down by now. Her breathing is still labored, she is still shaking, but she isn't crying anymore. Little specks of mascara dot her cheeks.

"Don't you think it's time for her to come out?" John moves past Janine, touching the door knob to what can only be the closet. He opens the door.

It's instant, with no hesitation. Mary's hand grabs John's ankle. She pulls, strong, forceful, fingers unyielding. John holds onto the doorjamb and Janine's shoulder to prevent falling. "Hello, Mary." Janine stumbles only slightly. Her hands are faint on John's back and chest.

Even in the dark, John can tell Mary doesn't look well. The closet is small, forcing Mary to curl into a tight ball. Her blonde hair is stringy, making her pallor even more prominent. She's wearing a thick winter coat, a wool cap sticking from the pocket. With her knees to her chest, she resembles a fetus. Underneath her feet, the carpet appears damp. She's still wearing shoes. Her scarf is wrapped around her neck a number of times. John wonders if she's warm. He ducks down, mindful of the fingers around his ankle, and presses the back of his hand against her forehead.

Cold, chilled, actively sweating. John pulls his hand back. "What's wrong with her?" John turns to Janine.

"She won't come out." Mike moves toward them now, crouching next to John and giving Mary his own inspection. "She says she prefers the dark. She's hungry all the time, but she vomits whenever I give her anything. I'm worried she's going to get dehydrated. Look at her fingers!"

John looks at Mary's fingers, peeling each of them from his ankle. "Wow, I wish there was some light."

Mike pulls out his phone and angles the screen away from Mary. Despite this, she shrinks, shutting her eyes and rolling until her back is to them. Her arm remains outstretched for John. Mike squints again. "Looks like paper cuts. Has she been filing?"

Janine snorts. "Funny, yeah."

John lightly touches them with the tip of his thumb. Her skin is cold. Each cut burns, as if they are on fire. "Actually looks like puncture wounds. Like—"

"Teeth," Mike finishes.

"Bit myself," murmurs Mary, almost too soft for them to hear. "It helps."

"You two boys are going to be doctors, right?" Janine crosses her arms over her chest.

"Yes," says Mike.

"Well, since you put it that way," says John.

"What should I do? Does she need to go to hospital?"

Mike and John give each other a look. Neither of them wants to be here right now. Mike turns off the makeshift flashlight, and John drops Mary's hand. He gives it a little pat. "How are you feeling, Mary?" John presses his fingers along her wrist. "Do _you_ think you need to go to hospital?"

Janine rolls her eyes. "She's not gonna agree to that, John."

Mike shakes his head. John rubs his fingers into Mary's cold skin. "Mary?"

"Close the door," she whispers. "Let me rest."

John and Mike are quick to stand. "Says she needs her rest, and because we are going to be doctors, we should… let her have that rest." John dusts himself off. "The customer is always right and… all that."

"You're an arse." Regardless, Janine closes the door. Mary mumbles her thanks.

"Oh, I'm not a doll anymore?" John pouts. "Do I still smell like a peach, at least?"

Janine ignores him. "I'll keep an eye on her. Try to… feed her again."

"Be careful," Mike advises. He pulls John from the room, pushing him into the lit hallway. It hurts John's eyes. He rubs them. "You are a bit of a little shit."

John shrugs.

Jim is on the sofa. His head slowly turns as he watches them walk to the door. "Did you see the bite marks?" he asks.

"Yes," answers Mike. "Try to keep them clean. I would wrap up her fingers, so she doesn't try to bite herself again."

"She might rip off the bandages." John looks at Jim. Jim looks at John. "Or she might not."

They leave the flat. John and Mike begin to feel immensely better.

"I don't think Jim was taking about the marks on her fingers," John says once they return to the fourth floor. "He looked confused. He looked at us… like we were idiots."

Mike frowns. "Don't tell me you have more wild theories."

"It's good to know you have confidence in my abilities." John scratches his arm. "Mary didn't have a pulse, Mike."

"Maybe you were doing it wrong."

"Yeah." John nods. "Maybe I was doing it wrong."

* * *

John wasn't doing it wrong.

He's training to be a doctor. He wasn't doing it wrong.

* * *

Sherlock is dressed in mostly black—black coat, black skirt, a pair of black boots John thinks are really cute, and a soft blue scarf. His hair is long, curled, freshly washed. "Want to go out?" he asks, but it isn't needed. Clothes tell a story.

"Lemme get my jacket."

Earlier this week, it had snowed. Classes were cancelled. Teachers worried, students cheered. The sun is never out, but the clouds don't threaten any more snowfall. _What a shame_ , John thinks. _Sherlock's hair looks quite nice with snow in it_.

John shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers curled around gloves he struggles to put on without removing his hands from his pockets. He clenches his jaw and pointedly doesn't shiver. Sherlock is some sort of God next to him, walking with one foot in front of the other, his back straight, his hair perfect, and even more taller than John than usual. His boots have heels that add several inches to his height. John loves it.

"Haven't seen you for a while—before I did, but… you know," John starts, clearing his throat. "'Fraid to admit I was worried you moved."

Sherlock stubbornly shakes his head. "I would have let you know if I moved."

"How?"

Sherlock shakes his head again. "I hoped I wasn't pulling you from other plans you may have had. You didn't seem busy. Films were on the coffee table, but I don't think you were watching them."

"No. Mike and I had to… check on a friend. She's sick. Not sure with what."

For a moment, Sherlock is quiet. "What's wrong with your friend?"

 _She has no pulse. She's cold. She bit her fingers to the point they wouldn't be able to touch anything without stinging._

John shrugs. "Maybe a cold."

Sherlock is satisfied.

They pass shops. John ducks inside one with a brick exterior and a warm interior. Sherlock turns on his heel and follows with no question. John would like to stay in here for the rest of the night, but Sherlock looks uncomfortable. His eyes are narrowed, his brow furrowed, and he hides his nose in his scarf. Quickly, John purchases some Reese's and tugs Sherlock back outside.

It's cold. John shivers. Sherlock doesn't, by some magical means. They stand underneath a streetlamp. John tears into his candy and chews. "Want a bite?" he asks, after noticing Sherlock's eyes on him. Sherlock has been known to stare at John, though, so John hopes he wasn't being too upfront.

Sherlock, eyes gentle and the wind caressing his hair, replies, "Sure, I'll, uh, have a bite."

John holds it up, his arm nearly outstretched. Sherlock leans in and bites into the piece of chocolate, breaking off a tiny piece. His jaw works up, down, up, down, stops when he swallows. Carefully, John smiles. "It's good, yeah?" Never has he been more interested in watching someone eat. He licks his lips.

Sherlock runs off, ducking into an alley.

John doesn't wait to run after him. In the alley, among the dark and the piles of snow pushed off to the sides of buildings, John hears the sound of someone vomiting. His half-eaten Reese's cup, wrapper and all, rests in a puddle of brown slush. "Hey, hey, hey," John whispers, immediately running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tucking it behind his ears, loosely twisting it at the nape of his neck. "It's okay, it's okay."

Sherlock is bent over, a hand on brick, the other resting on his knee. "I know," he says, voice hoarse and full of unshed tears. "I don't know… what came over me." When he recovers, John drops his hand to Sherlock's lower back, holding him steady. "Sorry."

"Don't have to apologize for getting sick. I should have asked if you were… allergic to peanut butter… or something." John rubs circles into Sherlock's coat, wanting to provide comfort, but assuming Sherlock wouldn't be able to feel it. "I can walk you home." John doesn't think Sherlock is allergic to peanut butter.

"I wasn't expecting any less from you, John Watson."

John feels like kissing Sherlock, but it's dark, and Sherlock still has vomit on his bottom lip. Gingerly, Sherlock wipes it away when he notices John staring.

"Come on, you… loon."

* * *

John does kiss Sherlock. They're in front of Sherlock's door. John stands on tiptoe and delivers a small peck on Sherlock's cheek, lasting a total of four seconds. It's a kiss. Sherlock appears breathless, speechless. "You okay?" John frowns.

"All right." Sherlock smiles then, and John smiles back.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

* * *

Sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning, John dreams of the bathtub with the yellow paint. This time, both arms are in the bathfill, and he's performing CPR on the body deep inside. With each pump, he breaks ribs, punctures lungs, but with each pump, bubbles float to the surface. Air is escaping. With each pump, John hears cracks, cracking. It doesn't stop. Soon, his hands go numb. When new bubbles appear, his hands join them. His fingers twitch, waving at their owner. John blinks, hears more cracking, more banging, more shaking.

John turns his head. Someone is knocking on the bathroom door, demanding entry, wanting inside. John has no hands, so he pushes himself up with his wrists and starts toward the door. The knocking is more persistent, more eager. Voices are thrown into the mix, deep ones, loud ones. They scratch at John's ears until he can no longer hear. There is no more knocking, there is no more cracking, and yet, John continues to the door.

John's hands are gone, and yet, John opens the door.

He smells winter and pine trees. He begins to cry. Then, hushed, a familiar, foreign accent, "May I come in?"

John opens his eyes and sees Sherlock. It's a beautiful sight. "Sherlock, what the hell?"

Sherlock is perched on John's windowsill, bare toes and fingers gripping the edge. Somehow, he is perfectly balanced. He's changed out of the clothes from this evening, now wearing an inside-out t-shirt and blue jeans, his hair pulled up into a loose bun. "You were thrashing in your sleep. I tried to get your attention. I think you were sleepwalking." Sherlock doesn't believe the words coming from his mouth; his brow furrows and his bottom lip sticks out. It goes away quickly. "May I come in?"

John takes a step back, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "Yes, Jesus, fuck, shut the window."

" _Say it_."

" _You may come in_. Damn."

Sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning, Sherlock comes into John's room.

The window closes. The draft ceases. John is suddenly more content. "Thank you." He picks up blankets and pillows from the floor and fixes the bed, unable to remember actually getting up from the bed itself. Maybe he was sleepwalking. _A frightening thought_.

He fixes the pillow last, bringing it close and shoving his arms underneath it. Sleep will overpower him soon, and he'll go back to dreaming awful things. Sherlock is here now, but even the thought of Sherlock sleeping next to him doesn't quell John's concerns. "I might kick you in my sleep," John says, ashamed.

The rustle of fabric, soft footsteps, and his bed dips down.

Sherlock is freezing. He crawls, on hands and knees, until he is curled behind John, underneath the thick wool blanket. John states the obvious. "You're freezing. How long were you out there?"

Silence. Sherlock runs his fingertips up and down John's arm, raising gooseflesh, sending chills throughout John's body. _This isn't going to warm me up_ , John wants to say, _I'm going to push you out of the bed if you don't quit_. He doesn't. John reaches behind him, grabbing hold of Sherlock's hip and pulling him in close. It doesn't take much; Sherlock was already so close to him. Now, though, his naked groin is pressed against John's clothed arse. He breathes in sharply and makes no other sound. John holds him there. "Get on top of me," whispers John, his eyes wide open and awake. He doesn't want to go back to sleep for some time now.

Sherlock gets on top of John, his weight heavy and comfortable.

"Crawl up until I say stop."

Sherlock stops before John tells him to. Sherlock knows where he's supposed to sit.

* * *

In the morning, with daylight streaming through the curtains, Sherlock isn't here.

In the morning, with birdsong in the air, John finds a note lying on his desk. It's on a torn-out piece of paper from one of his notebooks, written in pen, in messy handwriting. John can read it perfectly fine.

 _I MUST BE GONE AND LIVE, OR STAY AND DIE. YOUR SHERLOCK_

John smiles.

* * *

If Mike knows anything, he acts none the wiser. "Think it's supposed to snow again tonight," he says, munching on toast, pouring coffee. "Do you think they'll end up cancelling the rest of the semester?"

John taps his chin in heavy thought. "Would we still have to suffer through finals?"

"Yes."

"Then, I shall become very acquainted with the broken lift shaft."

They raise their mugs and form a pact—laughter, laughter, and laughter, and laughter.

* * *

It does snow, but it doesn't amount to anything. John grumbles and shoves a hat on his head, wraps a scarf around his neck, and all the while, thinking of Sherlock.

* * *

Loud music is playing as John returns from his class. He doesn't recognize the artist. However, the intention of it is very clear: to help everybody wake up. It's Monday. Every person John sees rubs their red eyes and bites their chapped lips. They're groggy, cold, their mobile phones another limb every hour on the hour to check the weather update. Much like John, they were also expecting a snowstorm to come through and prevent them from attending class. It's happened before, why not now?

The only person actually thrilled to be alive today is Sherlock.

He's waiting on the sofa, his knees pulled underneath him, his eyes glued to the television set, currently turned onto a James Bond film Mike left in a few days ago. John drops his bag to the floor. "Who let you in?"

"Mike," Sherlock says, not moving his head, "before he went out."

"Where did he go?"

"Something about milk."

"I keep forgetting that."

"If it makes you feel any better, I always forget the milk."

John sits next to Sherlock. He undoes the laces on his shoes. "Funny how I thought your brother wouldn't let you leave the flat when you two first moved in."

"It's not funny. You were correct."

Was John expecting anything different? What else could he possibly be right about? _Take that, Mike._ After removing his shoes, John moves his legs onto the sofa with them, tilting his body toward Sherlock. "I'm getting the impression your brother is not a very nice man."

"He's all right," Sherlock says, and laughs. "He keeps me… safe. No one did that for me before."

Sherlock's hair is loose today. Since their encounter last night, he hasn't showered. John can still see the hints of where he ran his fingers through the dark locks and pulled and pulled and pulled. John straightens up, the cushion creaking beneath him, and threads his fingertips along Sherlock's curls again, detangling, smoothing, stroking. "What about your parents?" John asks. "You've never told me about them before." Sherlock's hair is thick. John gets his fingers stuck more times than he would like for Sherlock to know. Gently, John pries away the knots.

"My parents never moved to Sweden with me," Sherlock whispers, his lips hardly moving at all. "We were in London together, but it was only Mycroft and me who made it to Sweden." He leans into John's hands, a slow slide to the left as their legs touch.

John stares at Sherlock, finally freeing his fingers. "Why didn't they move to Sweden with you?" John anticipates an answer he already knows, yet doesn't want to know.

"They were murdered."

"Did the murderer get caught?"

"No. He will be caught… in a way." Sherlock pushes his hair over his shoulder, turns his back to John. "Braid my hair, will you?"

John decides, as he's braiding Sherlock's hair with all the skill he learned from his sister, Sherlock is very strange.

* * *

Over the course of the week, Janine texts Mike and John with updates on Mary. Neither of them asks for this.

At the end of the week, John and Mike reread them, going back and forth, day by day.

"'Monday'," Mike starts, "'Mary is still in the closet! She won't fucking come out. She won't fucking eat. Jim hasn't left! I think he knows something, but he won't tell me, the tit.' Creepy bloke."

"'Tuesday'," John continues, "'I've managed to get Mary to _finally_ come out. She sits in her room, on the bed, all damn day. She still wears the clothes Jim found her in, which have started to smell. She doesn't move, and she still doesn't eat, no matter what I cook her. She tells me her lips often crack, and her throat often burns. Maybe just a bad case of strep? I'm not a doctor, though!'"

"'Wednesday. I think I need to take her to someone. Though, Mary swears she's fine. Can I believe her? She's moved around some today. I haven't seen her eat anything. Her eyes are dark, unhealthy. She showered today, too. Jim told me to keep track of the bite marks, but when I told him I was taping up her fingers, he called me an idiot and didn't explain any further.' Just like what you said, John. Do you think Jim knows something we don't?"

John shrugs. "'Thursday. I found bruises on Mary's neck. I don't know what they mean. They don't exactly look like hickeys, so I'm guessing it was from the attack. But it might be from an eager lad! Mary ate some meat today. She made me cook it all bloody. I didn't like it; she sure did!'"

"'Friday. Mary hasn't gone to class all week! She does the homework I pick up for her in her room. The curtains have been drawn, much to my extremely valid disappointment. When I tried to open them today, Mary screamed and ducked under the bed. Her hands and the side of her face erupted into icky boils. She wouldn't let me see them, not that I would want to. Gross. They disappeared after she spent an hour or two under the bed with a cold washcloth to the affected areas. Don't I sound like a doctor? She swears she eats. She swears she's feeling better. Jim won't stop looking at me. He does that, though, so I shouldn't be surprised. I feel weird… Do you two want to go out tonight? Molly wants us over at her place.' Of course she'd end it with an invitation to a party."

"Do you honestly expect Molly to have a party, Mike? _Molly_." John shoves his phone into his pocket. "Are we going?"

"What, are we a package deal? You're more attached at Sherlock's hip than mine, mate."

John narrows his eyes for a brief moment. He shakes his head. "Sherlock won't come."

"How do you know? Did you ask?"

"Don't need to ask. I know he won't come."

Mike snorts.

* * *

John asks.

He knocks on the door to their unit, dressed and ready to go to Molly's. "I'll just be a minute," John had told Mike, to which Mike said, "You're asking Sherlock, aren't you?" to which John said, "Fuck off."

John knocks on the door again, clasping his hands behind his back right after. He waits. When the door opens, he smiles, but when he sees it's Mycroft, he frowns. "Oh."

"Not pleased to see me, John?" Mycroft tuts.

John rolls his eyes. "Can Sherlock come out and play?"

"He isn't feeling well. Goodbye." Mycroft moves to shut the door. John catches it, holding it open for a moment longer.

"What do you mean he isn't feeling well? Is it, like, life-threatening?"

To that, Mycroft laughs. John frowns again. "You needn't worry about that, John. Go have fun."

Mycroft shuts the door. John lets him.

* * *

Janine's invitation to Molly's gave the impression it would only be her, Molly, Mike, and John. At least, it gave Mike and John that impression. They exchange looks at the sight of Mary and Jim there, both looking almost identical with dark eyes and sickly skin. Jim's appearance looks normal. On Mary, it only looks wrong, like she should be hospitalized immediately. John sits next to her. "How are you doing?" he asks, out of politeness rather than out of genuine concern. Mary is the girl who reminded him his shoes were untied, who always had a smile on her face and a cheerful twinkle to her eye, who kissed him with red lips and the smallest of romantic intentions. John feels nothing for her now. He looks at her and sees Death itself. She even smells of rot, a stench he finds oddly familiar.

"I'm okay, John," replies Mary.

John's eyes stray to Mary's neck. It's bare, white, and the faintest hint of teeth marks the surface. John looks away and makes eye contact with Jim. He's sitting beside Molly, on the sofa, an arm around her waist. John thinks they're seeing each other. Molly is happy, pink cheeks and wide eyes, and Jim is sitting beside her, blank and unreadable as can be.

Janine is the one to inquire about the alcohol.

"Oh, in the fridge," Molly says. Janine doesn't waste a single second.

John doesn't drink much. Janine mostly chatters, her conversation being the forefront to the indie music playing in the background. The music is soft, barely there. John hums to himself.

As the night progresses, Molly fidgets in her seat. Mike asks her about this. "Are you okay there, Molly?"

"I've been fighting back the urge to show you guys since you got here." Molly stands abruptly, a tad tipsy.

"Kitten—" Jim reaches for Molly's hand.

"Jim, don't spoil the surprise." Molly darts into a room with a closed door. She's gone for a moment, returning with a fuzzy ball of fur in her arms. "Look! Isn't he cute?"

The kitten meows. Janine squeals and claps her hands. "Aw! What about Toby? Do you still have him?"

Speak of the devil, Molly's other cat comes creeping out the room. His fur is on end, his ears pinned to the top of his head as he arches his back and shows his teeth to the guests. Molly points at him. "Toby, behave! He normally isn't like this, you know."

"So, what does this bring your cat total to, Molly?" John sets his beer can on the floor beside him. "Six, maybe?"

Molly blushes. "No, not yet. I have three."

"Where's the third?" Mike looks around.

"A stray," Molly says, and nods toward the back of a chair, where John is sitting, and where Mary is balanced on the arm. "There."

This cat is no older than the kitten in Molly's arms, no more than a year old. Its fur is white, the nose pink, and the eyes amber. Like Toby, its teeth are bared. John suddenly doesn't want to sit here anymore. He moves to stand, regrets it. Upon standing, Mary moves, as well, and the white cat with sharp teeth and claws hisses and claims Mary's skin as its own. Mary screams. Molly shouts. Toby gains courage and pounces on Jim, digging claws into his legs and scratching and scratching and scratching.

Janine jumps, yelling. Mike's eyes go wide. John feels sick. He watches the cat strike at Mary, ripping at her cheeks, her neck, her chest. He doesn't know what to do. His hands are shaking. He doesn't want to get scratched.

Meanwhile, Jim shakes off Toby, kicking the bundle of rage and blood. Molly scolds Jim, but no one is listening. Toby licks his shoulder and moves onto Mary.

John hears voices and voices, panic and mania. He reaches over and tries to peel the cat from Mary, but he's scratched in the process. John sticks his finger in his mouth.

Mary's screams drain out everybody's thought process. She begins to walk, to run, and then they're watching her leave the flat. In Molly's arms, the kitten hisses and shows its tiny claws and follows Mary with green eyes. Mike, John, and Jim skid outside, too, while Janine coddles Molly. "I don't understand," Molly is saying, as they race down the hallway. "I don't know what's gotten into them."

Jim is ahead of John, Mike trailing not far behind. They're running, panting. Jim's trousers are torn, traces of blood flying off him and landing on the flooring underfoot. "Mary!" Jim calls. "Mary, _Mary_!"

With two cats crawling their way up and down her body, Mary doesn't look like herself. She continues to scream, to run. Other tenants are sliding heads through doors and peering to see what's going on. All they see are flashes of fur and three men and blood, so much blood.

"Mary!" Jim catches up to her, grabs her arm, but a cat drags its claws along Jim's wrist, his arm, and Jim drops to his knees, clutching his wrist, at the veins the cat severed. Mike stays with Jim while John hurries after Mary. He doesn't go far, has to stop. Jim yells behind him, screeching at the top of his lungs. "Why did you stop? _Get her_!"

John stands there, at the end of the hall, and watches Mary tug open the lift doors and fling herself down the unused, broken shaft.

By now, Molly and Janine have come to see what's going on. Insensitive but expected, Molly cries, "Toby!" and runs down the stairs, Janine quickly following behind with tears in her eyes, reminiscent of not even a week ago. She calls for Mary, although John thinks Mary won't be able to hear.

Behind him, Mike is dialing emergency services. Jim is weeping, clutching his arm. Blood is everywhere, the sight of something grotesque and critical, but underneath Jim's palm, the gash the cat gifted him is barely a scratch.


	7. Stay and Die

DI Lestrade considers it a long shot.

Sally stubbornly shakes her head, her arms crossed over her chest. "I don't think he'll know anything," she says, "so why should we show him?"

"Because he _might_ know something?" Greg tries, rubbing the back of his neck with a rough palm. "Look, I know it'll be… difficult, but who knows?"

Sally slowly nods. "Who knows, yeah."

The truck driver sits in the uncomfortable chair. No matter how much he complains about the wood digging into his back, he has yet to give either Greg or Sally any valuable information. When they re-enter the room, the driver sighs and throws up his hands. "I told ya everything I already know! And don't you go showing me any more pictures. That last one almost made me half sick."

Sally takes the seat across from the driver, Greg on her left this time. Her hands are clasped together, a pretty smile on her apathetic face. "Do you expect us to apologize?" While the driver thinks of a response, Greg passes over another manila folder, to which the driver groans and furiously shakes his head.

"No more pictures, I said."

Sally ignores him. She opens the folder, taking each photograph and setting them down before the driver with careful, unfaltering fingertips.

"Why are you doing this?" the driver asks.

Greg takes this. "You were the only one who saw this man and woman move in. You _helped_ them move in. And you told us you believe the same woman came to you and asked for your help once again."

"It's not like I, I, I lugged the furniture up all those stairs myself, now did I?"

Greg raises his eyebrows. "Did you?"

"No, 'cause the lift don't work, and I wasn't about to throw out my back."

"You knew the lift didn't work?" Sally turns each photo, touching the corners until every picture lies in a straight line.

"Everybody knows the lift don't work," explains the driver, his face turning paler and paler with each passing second. His eyes never drift to the collection of twisted body parts and scratches and severe burns set out in front of him like a ready-to-view scrapbook. "I told the girl no, I couldn't help her." He still does not look at the pictures.

Sally points at the first one. "Do you know this girl?" This picture is of a blonde, and it is considerably less morbid than the rest: a picture with friends, taken from Facebook. She is smiling. "Do you know her name?"

The driver sneaks a peek. He shakes his head. "No."

"You told us the woman had another person with her when she visited you a second time—a blonde."

"It wasn't no girl. It was a boy."

Greg and Sally stare at each other. Sally clears her throat and goes down the line of photos. This is when the driver decides not to look again. "This girl's name is Mary Morstan. She died a few weeks ago. We were lead to believe this man"—Sally points to another photo, this one of a man with an unrecognizable face—"was somehow part of it. Do you know who he is?"

Slowly, the driver glances at the picture, grows white. Shaking his head, he says, "It'd be a wonder if anybody knew who he was. His face is—"

"Yes," Greg cuts in, "we know. We just thought… you'd know."

"I don't know nothing, I told ya."

Greg presses his lips together and turns his back to them, dropping his head in his hands. It aches, throbs.

"This man," Sally says, "and Mary Morstan seemingly died in the same manner."

Piece by piece, the driver's expression turns into a deeper cloud of confusion, one that Greg thought wouldn't be obtainable. "Well, I don't know nothing."

Greg closes his eyes. Sally manages a smile. "Thank you."

* * *

The girl across from them fiddles with her hair, twisting a brunette curl around and around her finger. "She was acting strange after she got attacked. She stayed in the dark, wouldn't eat, kept biting herself. Her skin boiled when it was exposed to the tiniest bit of sunlight."

Sally is sitting in the chair again, gentler with the late girl's roommate. "Were you present at the attack, Ms. Hawkins?"

She shakes her head. "No. Jim Moriarty was. Have you talked to him? He might know something. I mean, _maybe_. I haven't been able to talk to him."

Greg and Sally exchange glances. _You tell her_ , his eyes say. _I can't_.

Delivering bad news is their specialty. Sally leans in, becomes delicate. "You haven't heard about Jim Moriarty?"

The girl's eyes grow wide. She has neglected to wear makeup to this interview, and Greg is silently glad, if he expects her reaction to be what he's anticipating.

"What happened to him?"

 _Poor girl_. Greg leaves the room to get coffee.

* * *

Greg takes over the seat for this interrogation. His head hurts, so he gets straight to the point. "Mr. Stamford, do you happen to know the whereabouts of John Watson?"

This doesn't take long. "No."

Greg grins. "Thank you, Mr. Stamford."

* * *

John can feel his pulse in his finger. He nurses the small scratch in his jacket pocket, pressing the wound to a glove. The bleeding stopped before they followed the ambulance in a cab, though the constant pressure keeps John's mind off things he does not want to think of.

Mike shakes him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Jim is a mess beside them. His trousers have slashes in the fabric, but other than that, his body holds no evidence of the cat attack. Mike jokingly asked him if he had some sort of superpower, and was answered with only silence. After a moment of sitting quietly, Mike and John meet eyes. With that, Mike begins to understand. Yet, he does not know what he had begun to understand. Time will tell.

They're not allowed to see Mary. "Critical condition," a doctor tells Mike, Molly, Jim, Janine, and John. "You can see her soon." Other than that, they are not given a specific time limit. Still, they loiter downstairs in a room to themselves. Mike sits, Molly cries, Jim paces, Janine sleeps, and John thinks.

"I don't understand," Molly squeaks, the umpteenth time that night. "They've never acted like that before."

"Oh, shut up, Molly," Jim says, scathing.

 _They will not survive the night_. John glances between Molly and Jim, Molly with pink eyes and Jim refusing to even take a minute's pause in his pacing.

"Janine told me, 'at least they landed on their feet'." Molly sniffs, wiping her eyes. "I'm worried about Mary."

"We're all worried about Mary, Molly." Jim's teeth are sharp. He looks like a monster as he spits at her.

"Back off, Jim," John says.

Jim sulks away. They don't see him for the rest of the night.

Come morning, they have stiff backs and sore necks from dozing in plastic chairs. However, by morning, Mary is allowed to have visitors.

"She's woken up," says a nurse. "We're going to keep her for a few days, to monitor her and make sure she's one-hundred percent." The nurse leads them to Mary's room. The nurse's hair is in a bun, her bangs pinned back with a bobby pin. Her eyes are cheerful, and her smile is light pink. "She's been asking for all of you."

John highly doubts that. The only person who she wants to see is Jim, and he isn't here.

Even more powerful than last night, Mary's room smells of rot. It's dark, cold, and does nothing to help the four friends and one nurse when they enter. "Will you let me open the curtains?" asks the nurse.

Mary groans.

The nurse frowns, but leaves the curtains drawn. "Tell me if you need anything." And so, she leaves also.

Hidden underneath a thin gray blanket, Mary is stick-thin and made of dead eyes and restraints. Her arms and legs are tied to the bed. She does not move. Molly tears up. Janine runs over and attempts to hug Mary. Mike and John hang in the back, too wary to hover around the almost-cadaver.

"Mary, Mary, Mary," Janine says, running her fingers through Mary's hair, along Mary's arms. "Why do they have you tied down?" Mary does not answer. She does not look like herself. The cat scratches on her face and her body are no longer there. Janine isn't concerned about that. She continues to pat Mary's face, not allowing her eyes to see the faint row of teeth marks on Mary's neck, the very same marks John noticed the night before. _Did you see the bite marks?_ Jim's monotone voice vibrates in his head. John shuts his eyes. _Foolish, so fucking foolish_.

Mary begins to speak from the bed. It moves her whole body in order to produce a few words. "Jim," she whispers. "Where's Jim?"

Janine shakes her head. "I don't know, Mary. He left last night in a sour mood."

"He knows." Mary slowly nods. "Ask him. Ask him everything."

John is sick to his stomach. Janine tilts her head. "Ask him what? What does he know?"

Molly steps forward, palms together in mock prayer. "Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Open the curtains."

The demand is strong, full of strength Mary didn't have when they stepped into the room. She struggles to sit up, pulling at the straps along her wrists, her ankles. The bed shakes. "Get the nurse. I want her to open the curtains."

Molly blinks. Janine stands from the bed. "I can open the curtains. We don't need to get a silly nurse."

Mary's fingers curl. "No, _a nurse_."

Mike goes to get one. John steps out of the way as the nurse from before comes in, a curious look on her face. Her shoes tap against the tile flooring. "Am I hearing correctly?" She's overjoyed to hear this. "Do you really want to let some light in, to feel the sun on your skin?"

Weak now, Mary nods. "Yes," she croaks.

Still with a smile on her face and a victorious spring to her step, the nurse marches toward the curtains. Janine and Molly take a few steps back, joining Mike and John near the door way. They have no control over their bodies. Something is guiding them, forcing them, warning them.

It's bright outside, late morning. The room fills, explodes with the sun. Mary closes her eyes, turns her face to her shoulder, and bursts into flames, her body thrashing, twisting, burning.

Janine is screaming, hysterical, frightening. John yells with her. Molly falls to her knees, and Mike flees from the room. They are all running, running, running, the sounds of the nurse shouting and human skin sizzling in their ears. They want it to go away, but it will not go away.

* * *

"Spontaneous combustion." John squeezes his eyes shut and curls his fingers into fists. "They told us it was spontaneous combustion, but that doesn't _just happen_."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up into a smile. John's face is down, hiding in his hands. He doesn't see. Sherlock smiles fully. "Quite right."

* * *

Next to John, Sherlock feels safe. Security was something he never regularly experienced. Mycroft was there—only when he wasn't—and as he lies next to John's sleeping body, Sherlock begins to feel secure once more. With John beside him, no matter if he is asleep or awake, Sherlock thinks he would be able to live for fifty-seven more lifetimes.

John's chest rises and falls as he takes each breath. His eyes move underneath their lids, his lips part, he snores. Sherlock envies John. He watches his own chest, still, only moving when he forces it to, and he studies John's skin, at the cuts on his fingertips, the tiny scrapes on his knees. Sherlock's skin is like a magenta mess when he wakes. He doesn't want John to ever see him like that. And if he does, Sherlock hopes John will not be scared.

Sherlock gives John's cheek a parting kiss, scribbles a note, gathers his clothes, and leaves through the window. His heart is beating a sound he hasn't heard in a long time.

* * *

Mycroft doesn't like John. "I don't like John," he says, as Sherlock is climbing through the bedroom window, clothes in his arms and the smell of sex staining his skin and kinking his hair. Mycroft is on the bed, reading a novel he started years ago, but never finished. He's still in pajamas, a rare sight even for Sherlock to see.

"Why do you not like him?" Sherlock steps down from the windowsill, letting the articles of clothing fall to the floor. He moves around them, walking silently, and naked, to the door.

"Oh, I have my reasons."

In the bathroom, Sherlock replies, "I'm not going to replace you, Mycroft."

Mycroft laughs. Sherlock frowns and steps into the bathtub. The blood is lukewarm. "So, he doesn't know? Is that what you're implying?"

Sherlock slides the mattress over him, drowning out Mycroft's laughter. He still hears it.

* * *

When he wakes, it is dark.

He sits with Mycroft in the spare bedroom, drinking from a sippy cup of blood, eyes on Magnussen, never wavering, forever teasing.

Magnussen isn't well. His skin, however moist he claims to be, is dry, brittle almost. His eyes are dead, rimmed with dark circles. His face has no color, no lips. He stares at Sherlock with a very dull expression. "I figured it out," he says, voice hoarse. "A few days after you kept me in here, I figured it out."

Mycroft is on Sherlock's right, on the floor, legs crossed, hands clasped together in his lap. "And what have you figured out?"

Sherlock allows a drop of blood to fall from the corner of his mouth. He doesn't wipe it away.

Magnussen's nostrils flare. "I thought you were keeping me here to torture me."

"We are torturing you."

"And yet, foolish as I was, I also thought you would continue to feed me."

Magnussen smells like death. His skin is boiled on the left side of his body, where the curtains part just so, letting in only a slimmer of sunlight.

"It seems you were wrong," Mycroft says.

Sherlock slurps.

* * *

"It won't take long for his body to rot from the inside out," Sherlock says. "If I go a few days without feeding, I start to smell. He's been in that room for…"

"A month," Mycroft supplies, going through his mobile phone. "You've never gone that long without feeding, Sherlock."

"Thank you," Sherlock says, thinking it fit.

Sharply, Mycroft adds, "Would John have done this for you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He twists the Rubik's Cube in his hands, completing the puzzle for the tenth time.

* * *

Mycroft stops cutting off fingers. It has no effect on Magnussen after a while. Magnussen stares at them, head tilted to the side, empty eyes, resorted to nothing but a pile of skin and bones.

Besides, his fingers were growing back.

"How was I supposed to know that?" Sherlock says when Mycroft gives him an accusing look. "I never lost a body part and calculated data, and I _won't_. For God's sake, Mycroft." Still, Sherlock is curious. "How fast are they growing back?"

"Slowly, but they're growing."

 _Interesting_. "No, Mycroft."

Mycroft shrugs.

* * *

Sherlock is in John's flat when he finds out what happened to Mary. He feigns surprise at every turn of John's head. John shared a kiss with Mary, that much Sherlock knows, though he is unable to decipher John's true feelings for her. Had they shared a bed? Were they together, never too far from the other? Did John care for her?

John's head is in his hands, his shoulders giving the smallest of shakes. But when Sherlock reaches out, touches his back, John raises his head, the remnants of fear and deep confusion ripe on his face. _He is scared he might be next. He does not want to end up in flames. Fire is not contagious, John_.

Sherlock presses his palm to John's cheek. He hopes his skin is not too cold. "Did they say what else could have happened?"

John shuts his eyes. "No. Just… spontaneous combustion."

 _This was not supposed to happen_. Sherlock would have drained her if Jim Moriarty did not find them. Mary would have died in the snow, no traces of blood in her body as she lay breathless and loveless.

Absently, Sherlock runs his thumb along John's cheek. It's slow, in circles. John's skin pinks underneath Sherlock's hand. Warmth seeps through his fingers. _I will need to tell him. I have to tell him. He will not want to be around me after. I am a monster_.

"John, I—"

John kisses him, hugs him. His hands are firm along Sherlock's body, groping, squeezing, but underneath it all, soft and nurturing. Sherlock is strong. Tonight, he is a kitten, limp and clinging. John carries him to the bedroom, and inside, beneath the covers, John is even more soft and nurturing.

Sherlock cries at the climax. John touches his face, his head in both his hands. "Hey there," John murmurs, and Sherlock kisses him. He kisses him, he kisses him, he kisses him.

They lie there, on their sides, John behind, his arms tight around Sherlock's torso. "You won't stay the night, will you?"

 _I want to sleep like you_. "I will stay until you fall asleep."

"May I ask why?"

"You will not like the answer."

John is quiet for a moment. His fingers curl against Sherlock's chest, scratching gently.

"Are we together?" Sherlock asks.

John laughs. "I was under the impression we were."

Sherlock grows bold. "So, you care for me?"

John hums. "Yes, I do."

Bolder. "Show me."

John shows him again, and again, and again, and again.

Before the sun rises, Sherlock leaves as he did at the start of the week, sore and happy. John's marks are all over his back, red and lovely. If John noticed a row of faded bite marks on Sherlock's side, underneath his right armpit, he didn't say anything. Sherlock wants them to go away. _They won't. They are to stay forever._

Sherlock writes his next note on a sheet of paper. He never wears makeup; he wishes he were wearing some right now, so he could sign it, so John will be a dork and press his lips to the imprint of Sherlock's.

Sherlock settles for ink pen. It looks empty. It doesn't run out.

 _DO YOU WANT TO MEET ME TONIGHT? I LIKE YOU SO MUCH. YOUR SHERLOCK_

* * *

John smiles.

* * *

Mike is in the kitchen. It is morning, and neither of them wants to talk about what's happened.

"I had a nightmare," Mike says. "Fire."

"I don't remember my dream," John says.

"Lucky."

* * *

Mike is out with Molly and Janine. They say they won't be gone long, but it's been two hours.

John is in the sitting room, perched on the sofa and waiting for Sherlock. His note said to meet him tonight. John assumes they are to meet here, as always. John's never been inside Sherlock and his brother's flat, only managed to glance a handful of times. Would he feel welcome, with old newspapers on the walls?

Someone is at the door.

"Sherlock," John says, relieved, grinning. "I've missed you."

"We were only together last night…and this morning." Despite this, Sherlock is smiling, too, looking rather vibrant in a deep purple button-down shirt and a short black skirt with heels, his hair in a loose braid. "May I come in?"

John thinks this is déjà vu; he heard this before, many times before. "Why do you always have to ask that? You should know you're allowed in when it comes to me."

Sherlock stands there, hands behind his back. "May I come in?" he repeats.

John is holding onto the doorjamb, his head leaned against it as he stares at Sherlock. _Curious_. "What if you just… came inside?" John takes a step back as if to show Sherlock how easy it is. "What would happen?"

Extremely smug, with raised eyebrows and a small grin, Sherlock strolls into the flat, one foot in front of the other. His heels click. His eyes roll. His lips curl. And still, he continues to walk, ever graceful—

until he stops and turns around to face John.

It takes a second for John to realize what is happening, and when he does, he rushes toward Sherlock and grabs hold of his shoulders, shaking him, chanting, "You can come in, you can come in, oh, _Jesus Fuck_ , you can come in."

Sherlock's face is crusted with blood, quickly drying once it escapes his pores. His eyes are dark, filled to the brim with pink tears. Snot the color of red velvet runs from his nostrils, saliva peach in hue and not in texture from his lips. Sherlock is sticky, his clothes drenched—his beautiful clothes.

"What are you?" John sighs, scanning Sherlock's face, pleased to see no new blood pouring, yet anxious for more. It is only when Sherlock begins to cry actual tears John realizes how harsh his words are. They are familiar knives to Sherlock. "I'm sorry," John whispers.

Sherlock sniffs, shuts his eyes. "I need a shower."

"Yes. I will… wash your clothes for you."

They meet up once Sherlock is clean, all wrapped in a towel, fluffy and soft. Sherlock's hair is pulled back and twisted into a braid again. "I am a monster," Sherlock says as a greeting. He shows John his back, lifts up his right arm. John's eyes are drawn to the rows of bite marks under Sherlock's armpit. They are white, jagged, like the owner grabbed onto Sherlock as he tried to get away, ended up scraping and tearing, ripping. It looks like it hurt, like it was rough and done without a care. John knows what it is, though. He saw it on Mary, on her neck. And now, he sees it on Sherlock—Sherlock, who is not breathing, who is as still as a marble statue, who is saying, "I am a monster."

 _Sherlock is a monster_. "An accident?" John's voice is steady. One of them has to be.

"I would never willingly do this to myself."

"Is your brother…?"

"No. However, I think he wants to be. _Power_."

John touches Sherlock's bicep, helping him lower his arm down to his side. The mark is hidden like this. "Who did it to you? Why?"

"He wanted me." Sherlock becomes visibly uncomfortable. John doesn't touch him, instead moving away, giving him space, giving him too much space. Sherlock continues, "He's in our flat. We have him locked up. Mycroft has a plan."

"A plan?" John goes into the laundry room, taking Sherlock's clothes and returning them to him. He helps him dress, the shirt first, then the skirt.

"We will need to leave soon. We can't stay. It's too dangerous." Sherlock won't meet John's eye. John fiddles with a button on Sherlock's shirt. "I killed Mary," Sherlock says, then shakes his head, like he's remembering something. "Well, not _really_. I bit her. I drank her. I meant to kill her, but… I was stopped."

John drops his hands to his sides. He can put two and two together. _He knows, Mary said. Ask him. Ask him everything._ "What's Mycroft's plan?"

"I can't tell you."

"If you honestly think I'm just going to… let you leave." Without stopping himself, John grabs onto the front of Sherlock's shirt, fingers tight against the fabric, as he clutches for dear life. He doesn't know what's gotten into him. _Sherlock is under my skin. I don't want him to leave._ Delicately, John presses his forehead to Sherlock's. They stay like that for quite some time.

Sherlock accepts defeat very quickly. "Mycroft won't like this."

"Does it look like I bloody care what your damn brother thinks?"

Sherlock smiles. It's beautiful.

* * *

By the morning, it snows even more. They don't have class again. John spends the day with Mike, Molly, and Janine. No one speaks of Jim's continued absence.

* * *

Mycroft is disappointed with seeing John at the door. Laced with disappointment is the lack of surprise. Mycroft need only to look over his shoulder, at Sherlock, to know their plan is now extended to John Watson. "Be careful," Mycroft tells Sherlock, watching him pull his coat closer to his body, wrap his scarf tighter around his neck.

"I'm always careful," Sherlock says. Mycroft scoffs. Sherlock frowns. _Big brother knows best_.

"He's very loyal, isn't he?" Mycroft's voice follows Sherlock throughout the flat. "Shouldn't you be worried?"

"No. Just do your part here. Didn't you say we are to leave tomorrow?"

"I said 'soon'."

 _Big brother knows best._ "Right."

* * *

John is on board. He's a puppy, following behind Sherlock with little to no distance between them. His hands are shoved into his pockets, the breeze sticking up his hair, but his eyes are eager and his smile is radiant. Sherlock realizes John would do anything for him, and that thought is very frightening.

"So," John starts, beside Sherlock now, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Tell me more about this… thing you've got going on: can you walk into public places without an invitation? We went into that shop together. How'd you get into the flats? Does it go deeper? Do you have to get down on your knees and ask Mother Nature's permission to go outside?"

"You'd like me on my knees, wouldn't you?" Sherlock grins softly. "The shop we went into had an open sign, which generally means anyone is welcome to enter. Public places are free to go, like hospitals and restaurants and other facilities. For our flat, once Mycroft obtained the keys, I was to ask him to enter. It does get very annoying after a while. Every time I walk in, I have to get Mycroft to let me know it's okay."

"Can you bypass that somehow?"

"I'm sure if Mycroft died, then I would technically be the owner of the flat, and would not require permission to come inside." Sherlock chews on the inside of his cheek. "I could never kill Mycroft, though."

John is quiet for a moment, thinking. "You didn't say anything about the Mother Nature thing."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The outside world is considered everybody's home. No one can own it, no one can hold it, and no one can take it."

"You made that up."

"Yes, but that's how Mycroft explained it to me, when I started asking. He didn't know what else to tell me. He had no more knowledge about what had taken over me than I did. You always go to your older sibling for advice, no matter if you're a blood-sucking creature or not." At this, Sherlock smiles, all teeth, and despite thinking it would make John uncomfortable, John laughs—actually cracks up and has to hold his side to calm down. Sherlock feels a well-deserved sense of accomplishment.

"Okay, now, the 'blood-sucking creature' thing. Who do you drink from? You said you were planning to kill Mary, but you were stopped. So, does that mean…" John pauses, his brow furrowed. "You can drink from humans, but… it would kill them, and if you stop… feeding, then they turn into… you."

"Very good, John, very observant. I can also drink from humans if they willingly give me their blood. I've drunk from Mycroft a number of times."

"And he didn't turn?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, he cuts himself and pours the blood into cups for me. That's the only safe way I know that I can do to still drink fresh human blood without coming into contact with humans themselves."

John snorts. "You're like a snake, then. One bite can poison."

"All snakes aren't poisonous, John."

"Yes, I know that, but hear me out."

John laughs again, his hand on his side, holding a stitch together. Sherlock begins to laugh, as well. John's laughter is contagious. Nothing else in the world is more pure.

Soon, they manage to find the truck driver. Mycroft found him; he doesn't tell Sherlock how, only lets him know his home address and his work schedule. "He does move around a lot, for work, so you might have to look longer than you originally planned," Mycroft said, but the driver is here, at his house, walking down his front porch steps, ready to take his dog for a walk. It's still cold out, the sun having set half an hour ago. The dog is warm, packed with long, thick, red fur and an easy-going smile.

 _Take that, Mycroft_.

"Wait," John says, grabbing Sherlock's arm with a tight grip and a brilliant thought. "Can you turn into a bat?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Come _on_ , John."

"Can you?"

Sherlock ignores him, starting toward the driver and earning a shocked look in return. The truck driver is bundled up, down coat and stocking hat and all. The dog seems more suited to this environment. Its paws even have little mittens.

The driver winds the leash around his fist several times. "Can I help ya, miss?"

 _He doesn't remember me._ Sherlock tilts his head. "I was wondering if you would help me, rather. I appear to need assistance in moving some furniture."

Suddenly, it clicks. It might have been Sherlock's voice, or it might have been the way Sherlock brushed a lock of hair behind an ear and batted his eyes, but now, the driver remembers who he is, and uttermost arousal flashes across his face. _Disgusting_.

"What do ya need help with? Moving again? What about that… man that was with ya before?"

"Oh, he's all well and good. I find it easier to talk to you, to ask for your help." Sherlock draws his tongue across his bottom lip, biting it, trying to act appealing yet feeling like an idiot.

The change happens quickly. The driver surveys Sherlock, from his knobby knees to his growing fringe. His eyes shift to his left, just over Sherlock's shoulder, and all hints of giving a helping hand vanish. "I can't."

Sherlock becomes malicious. "Why not?" He fights the urge to growl, to lunge forward and hiss. The dog looks at him, head tilted, tail wagging. He's always liked dogs better than cats.

The driver is stubborn. "Can't. I can't. Have a nice night." And he waddles off, the dog trotting close beside him.

Sherlock tries not to seethe. He draws in a breath, keeps it inside. Slowly, he rotates onto his heel and looks at John, who is acting more than a little guilty, with his arms over his chest, his jaw set, and his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. "He was going to help us," Sherlock whispers, stalking toward John, closing the distance between them in two strides. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"You do know you give off a very intimidating aura, yes?"

John throws up his hands. "What was I supposed to do? He looked like he wanted to eat you!"

Sherlock doesn't say anything for quite some time. Then, "He helped move us in the first time. He showed… an interest in me, and wanted to know if I was single."

John isn't impressed. "And…?"

"Mycroft told him I was twelve."

Once again, John proves his worth. His face twists into something gross, into something Sherlock's stomach feels like every time he doesn't feed for more than a day. " _What?_ "

"I know, I know. I think I'm going to get Mycroft to turn him into the authorities."

"No fucking shit, Sherlock." John rubs his hands together. "Why not just kill him? Is he going to tell anybody about this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "No idea. I don't want to leave the dog by itself."

John tugs on the lapels of Sherlock's coat and kisses his forehead. "I adore you. Let's go."

* * *

It snows more.

It fills John's dreams. It replaces the yellow paint in the bathtub. It's cold, colder, coldest at the bottom. John touches nothing. The body isn't here. His hands don't float to the surface. He stays intact. It's so cold, his skin cracks, breaks. Blood drips onto the snow, into the tub, staining everything it touches. It's beautiful.

When John wakes, he is cold. His bedroom window is left open. _Sherlock_.

On John's desk, a note lays.

 _COME OVER. I'M IN THE BATHROOM. PLEASE DON'T COME IN. I ADORE YOU, TOO. YOUR SHERLOCK_

John covers his face with both hands. He's in love.

* * *

Mycroft answers the door again. "Were you followed?"

John blinks. "I live right next door."

Mycroft stares at John.

John sighs. "No, I wasn't followed. My flatmate was in his room. I told him I was going out. He knows what that means."

"And what does that mean?"

"That I'm going out…?"

Mycroft still stares at him, but lets him in. John knows he somehow hadn't answered Mycroft's question to his satisfaction. John really does enjoy pissing him off. _Sacrifices_. John walks inside. Mycroft closes the door behind him.

From what glances he got of the inside, John manages to be surprised. The flat is bare, little furniture in the sitting room and kitchen. When he passes a bedroom, he catches a glimpse of a bed, a bedside lamp, and nothing else. The other doors down the hallway are shut. John wonders which one is the bathroom.

"Sherlock told you the plan, I presume?"

John gets distracted by a newspaper article to his left. He can't read it all—it is overlapped by another article, the weather. What he can read is very minimal: something about a boy named Carl Powers. "Not in detail," John says. "Why do you have newspaper on the walls?"

"Things that happen in here can get messy. Newspaper protects the walls underneath. No evidence." Mycroft stands there, very out of place in a three-piece suit and a red tie.

John purses his lips. "Won't it bleed through the newspaper?"

"Do you know how much newspaper is on the walls?"

John blinks. "No?"

Mycroft walks by, into the kitchen. He discards his suit jacket on the chair and rolls his sleeves to his elbows. After, he drops to a cabinet under the sink, opens it, and procures a jug from within. When he stands, he does it with great finesse. He moves faster, much faster than is necessary right now. "Follow me."

John follows Mycroft, all the while answering even more questions, no doubt, wrong.

"You are aware of what lengths I go to protect my baby brother?"

"Uh, I guess so."

"And are you hoping to fill my shoes one day?"

"Well, I…"

Mycroft stops, back against a door. His eyes narrow, his head tilts. "I know you care for my brother. However, I am unsure you exactly know what you are caring for."

"A vampire," John says. It feels ridiculous to say, something out of a fairy tale. Mycroft isn't laughing, isn't looking at him weirdly—not any weirder than he already is.

"Has Sherlock told you who turned him?"

"He said you had him locked up in here." John now knows "in here" means the door they are about to go in. Mycroft's grip tightens on the jug's handle.

"So, John Watson, I take it you are ready to meet another vampire?"

Should he play it off? Should he dismiss this, and act like he's been meeting vampires all his life? Or should he run? His feet are heavy. His heart is racing. He has never felt more ready in his life.

"Open the door."

Mycroft does.

Inside is a very unimpressive man, trembling, starving, his skin covered with boils of all sizes. Some of his fingers are stunted. John doesn't know what that means. "Who is he?" John asks. "He doesn't look very important."

Mycroft laughs at this, wholeheartedly, booming. It scares John. "He is rather important, John. Do you know anything about Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

"Name sounds familiar."

Mycroft closes the door behind them. "Owns a few newspapers. Other than that, no real importance."

"I thought so."

Mycroft laughs again. John needs to prepare himself next time Mycroft does it. "I do believe I forgot to offer my condolences for your friend, Mary Morstan, though you hardly knew her." Mycroft sits in front of Magnussen, baffling John as to why he would take a seat near his brother's so-called reason to being how he is today. "I know you'll find it believable the cause of her demise is Sherlock, and a witness of this is Jim Moriarty." Mycroft unscrews the lid to the jug. John smells something awful, not that the smell was great to begin with. He scrunches his nose. The smell of rot, which he found with Sherlock, Mary, and now Magnussen, is almost familiar enough for John to not become nauseated. But that was before the addition of what can only be acid enters the picture.

"We need to throw off the trail," Mycroft says, now turned toward John. "Every killing you hear on the news, read in the papers, find out from your friends has been done by me. Sherlock is equally as guilty, as all the blood was for him. I stockpile blood, while Jim Moriarty is able to seduce others into cutting their wrists and letting him drink the droppings. Sherlock, unfortunately, is not fond of… people."

Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock and I need to leave and go far away."

"Sherlock says you were from Sweden. Why did you move here?" John carefully walks toward Mycroft, trying not to breathe too much.

"Magnussen was here. I needed to kill him for what he did to Sherlock." Mycroft rises onto his knees, raising the jug a bit. "Magnussen will be framed for the crimes. Nobody will be the wiser."

Magnussen looks dead already. His chest doesn't move with any breath, his eyes don't look at either of them. His stunted fingers occasionally twitch—the lone inkling that betrays his life status.

"What do you mean by that?"

"No one will deny Magnussen is capable of this."

 _Okay_ , John thinks, _you're the big brother, you're the genius. I will trust you blindly._ "What am I doing here?"

Before Mycroft can answer, he lifts the jug even higher and promptly pours a quarter of it onto Magnussen's face.

John's eyes widen.

The boils pop, blister, an eye melts, nostrils close. What frightens John the most is how silent Magnussen remains.

Then, with no time for the acid to settle— _can acid settle? Jesus_ —Mycroft stands, sets the jug aside, and pulls Magnussen to his feet. "John," he says, and John acts fast. They push Magnussen, chauffeur him out the room, out the flat. They're running now, dragging the body now, sliding, yanking, closer, closer to the lift. The hall is empty. No one is listening. No one is here. No one sees them pry open the lift doors.

Magnussen's body is lifeless. It's a dead weight. John takes over, Mycroft letting go, Magnussen halfway down the lift chute.

And John falls. Down, down, and John is sliding down with Magnussen. Magnussen's hand is on his ankle, tight, unyielding, like Mary's hand, in the closet, holding him, anchoring him. John is unable to grab onto anything. He's falling, falling, dark, surrounded with darkness, and then he stops, suspends in midair.

John is crying. When he looks over his shoulder, Sherlock is there, covered head to toe in magenta, in what can only be blood. His hair is matted, the whites of his eyes pink. Sherlock is naked, holding onto the edge of the lift opening with one hand and John's arm with the other. Mycroft is at the opening, looking down at them, expressionless.

"Kick," Sherlock pleads.

John kicks, and Magnussen loses his grip and falls, falls, falls.

John sucks in a breath. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock is so strong. He can hold John with one arm, with one hand. "Climb up," Sherlock says, "I can handle it."

John climbs up. Sherlock is oily. John doesn't mind. He's alive, he's on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Everything is going black. "You were in the bathtub," John says, breathless, his chest tight.

Sherlock appears in his vision. His hair is black, so black, illuminated by a light behind him. He's beautiful. "Yes," he whispers, voice cracking, "I was in the bathtub."


	8. Gone and Live

Inside John's head, he hears symphonies. Everything begins in yellow, and ends in red. He sees suns that set purple, that rise in white. Snow falls pink, and melts golden. Quietly, as he lies there, spread-eagled and frightened, John catches his breath and falls even deeper into a sleep he had not known he needed.

* * *

When he wakes, it is night, and he is still on the floor. He is surrounded by newspapers, by obituaries and job listings. His eyes are particularly set on an update on the weather sometime in the nineties. It's snowing, it won't stop snowing, dear _God_ , don't leave the house.

The first person John sees is Sherlock. He's wearing a dress tonight, thin straps and tight around the waist. His skin is so white; John can hardly remember how it looked before he had almost died.

"Can you eat garlic?" asks John.

Sherlock, his face previously stitched together with worry, suddenly turns into something comical. He laughs. "Excuse me?" He blinks and tilts his head to the side. "Did you say 'garlic'?"

John nods. "Yeah, I did fucking say 'garlic'. Can you eat it?"

"Of course I can't eat it, John. I can't eat any food. It doesn't sit well with me. I throw it up."

John recalls the candy bar, the potato crisps. He even thinks back to Jim, hardly drinking, hardly eating with them when he brought food. "You can't eat," John mumbles.

"Are you going to ask if I can be seen in mirrors now? If you can take a picture of me and keep it forever?" Sherlock sounds amused.

John smiles. "Can I?"

"Only on smartphones. It's a wonder how advanced technology has become."

They laugh together. It hurts John's ribs, but he doesn't stop.

* * *

John recovers enough to sit up, to have Sherlock lean against him as they watch the television. Mycroft is nowhere to be found. "He's tying up loose ends," Sherlock says, snorting right after. "Whatever that means."

"You will be leaving soon."

Sherlock hums, disinterested in whatever is on the television screen. Instead, he climbs onto John's lap, hands going through his hair.

"Will I be coming with you?" John touches Sherlock's waist, his fingers meeting at the small of his back.

"Of course." Sherlock presses his face in John's neck and doesn't pull away. Languid, John tips his head back and shuts his eyes.

* * *

Before sunrise, John brings up Magnussen. "He held onto my ankle. I fell, must have tripped."

"Oh, yes, you must have tripped."

Sherlock meets his eyes. John frowns. "Did Mycroft push me?"

"It certainly seems that way. Good thing I was awake and ready to go if something bad happened." Sherlock pats John's cheek. "What would I do without you?"

* * *

In the morning, a student finds Magnussen's body at the bottom of the broken elevator shaft. "Something smelled," they tell Detective Inspector Lestrade, "so I checked it out."

Magnussen's face is melted together, unrecognizable. Parts of him are on fire, and when the body is moved, his head rolls off his shoulders.

* * *

John manages to sleep until ten o'clock. Mike is flipping through a textbook, on his lap. A highlighter is in hand, though it's capped, and Mike does more skimming than actual reading. As John stands in the doorway, he begins to wonder how he would be able to leave. Mike will be questioned. They might even think of him as a suspect to John's apparent disappearance. _I have to tell him. He will understand_.

"Hey, Mike…" John takes a careful step forward. He's still in his jeans and coat, too sore to undress before he went to bed. "I need to tell you something."

"Yeah?" Mike turns the highlighter in his fingers. He doesn't even seem concerned.

John considers what route he should take, what would make him sound believable and not… insane. "Something is wrong with Sherlock," he begins, to which Mike replies, "Anybody could have guessed that."

"What?"

"He always looks sick all the time. Too pale. Kind of like Mary."

John looks down at his hands. "He's… a bit better off than Mary."

"What is it, then?"

"Don't laugh."

"I won't."

John tells him, and Mike doesn't laugh. "So, what do you need me to do?"

"Tell the police you don't know where I am, that me going missing at the same time Sherlock and his brother do is a coincidence. Tell them I went out to get milk one night and never made it back."

Mike laughs now. "That sounds plausible."

John smiles.

* * *

John is back at Sherlock's unit that night. He's changed by then, showered, too. He isn't wary around bathtubs anymore.

Mycroft is in the kitchen, talking to no one and keeping to himself. Sherlock pays him no mind. After he lets John in, he holds out a pair of scissors and asks, with wide eyes, "Can you cut my hair?"

"I don't know how to cut hair," says John, and takes the scissors. "Why do you need your hair cut?"

Mycroft answers this. "A certain truck driver, who has an affinity for Sherlock, may, we hope, tell the authorities he saw me, a man, and a woman, Sherlock, move into these flats. By the time we leave, all anybody will say is they have seen three men vacant the premises. I know how much you dislike being referred to as a 'man', Sherlock, and how much you enjoy wearing your dresses, but for the sake of our safety, you will need to conform to the roles this patriarchal and heteronormative society assigned to when you came out our mother's womb."

Sherlock frowns. John fingers the scissors. "Sit down for me, then. Let's see what I can do."

They go into the loo. Sherlock sits on the toilet, a leg drawn up to his chest as he waits, eyes closed and his lips pressed into a straight line. In the corner of the room, a bathtub sits, an old mattress propped against the wall. Within the tub, a thick red liquid rests. John doesn't need to ask what it is. "So, you sleep in that?" He finds a comb and begins brushing out any tangles in Sherlock's hair.

"Yes. So, to answer your nonverbal question: no, I don't sleep in a coffin." Sherlock smirks.

"But you do have to stay away from sunlight. That much is obvious… after what happened to Mary." John sets the comb aside, chews on the corner of his lip. "Shame we can't donate this."

"I can go out during the day, though I don't like to, and it has to meet the right conditions. I don't like the idea of… spontaneously combusting." He smirks again, utterly delighted. "And yes, what a shame. You have no idea how long I've been growing this out."

John holds in his breath, his hand steady, a single strand of the long black hair caught between the two blades. "How do you want this?"

"Mycroft said short, but I do prefer something feminine."

John snips and snips, and snips, snips, snips.

By the end, Sherlock is fighting back tears. John places the scissors on the sink and runs his fingers through the short, yet still thick, hair. It's already curling, adapting to its new length. John takes the comb again, finding a new part and swiping Sherlock's fringe in a direction that still looks attractive. It's strange to see his forehead, his ears. John wipes tears from Sherlock's cheekbones and gives that forehead of his a kiss. "You're cute, Sherlock, please, don't cry."

"In the medicine cabinet," Sherlock says through his tears, "we have hair product. Put it in my hair."

"Until when?" John takes out the tube, reads over the label.

"Until you think someone would reasonably assume my sexual orientation based on the amount of product in my hair."

John squirts some of it into his palm. It's more than ample. "Got it."

* * *

Mycroft stares at Sherlock once he exits the bathroom. He blinks, furrows his brows, and gives a small shake of his head. "Makes you look older," he says, "like you're… ready to hang on the arm of some… man."

"And his cheekbones," John pipes up, holding a trash bag of Sherlock's hair. "Don't they look simply… mysterious?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He takes the garbage bag and dumps the hair in the sink. Soon, it is on fire, and the flat begins to smell. "We will leave by the end of the week," Mycroft says, as they all watch Sherlock's hair burn. "I am still unable to find Jim Moriarty. Hopefully he will make an appearance."

"Yes," Sherlock says, absently leaning into John. "I need to finish this."

* * *

John spends the night with Sherlock. They are in the sitting-room-and-kitchen combo, John stretched on his back and Sherlock beside him, cross-legged, the Rubik's Cube in his hands. Sherlock twists and turns the puzzle in his hands, the stickers already beginning to fade from use. "How many times have you solved that?" asks John, rolling onto his side to face Sherlock properly now.

"Loads," replies Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders. "I've even taken it apart, to see what's inside."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see how it worked."

John doesn't know what to say. He stares at Sherlock, eyes going from the curls at the nape of his neck, to the smile on his face—small, concentrated. The cube squeaks in Sherlock's hands. "What if I wanted to give you my blood?" John reaches out, touching Sherlock's knee, stroking the fabric of the blue jeans he was pushed to wear. The knees have holes in them. John can see leg hair, pale skin. He wants to kiss it.

"What _if_ you wanted to give me your blood? I fail to see your intentions here." Sherlock doesn't raise his head.

"Would you take it?" John props himself onto a hand, leaning his weight on his arm. "How much would you take?"

Sherlock presses his lips together, not meeting John's eye. "I would think it depends on how much you were willing to give me."

"All of it."

"No."

John blinks. "What about enough to fill a bathtub?"

"That's a lot of blood, John. There are… bodies in there—multiple sources; Mycroft, the man Mycroft dropped in the river, a boring schoolteacher… a lot, John. I wouldn't stop you if you wanted to contribute some to me, but… only a little." Sherlock stares at John, eyes soft. He blinks. "I would even feed from you, if you want me to. It'll have to be in a cup, though—nothing that consists of my teeth breaking a vein." Sherlock lowers his head once more, going back to the Rubik's Cube. "I prefer sippy cups."

Slowly, John lies back down, tucking an arm behind his head. "How many people have you drunk from before? Live ones, I mean."

"They're dead. Why does it matter? Are you jealous?" Sherlock smirks.

John frowns. He shakes his head. "No, just… curious."

"Mary," Sherlock starts, "and then some I don't remember quite well. It was when I first turned, and didn't know how to control myself. There are certain people you can't drink from. For example, those who have taken drugs, who have not eaten for some amount of time, cancer patients, anybody who has a blood disease. Despite this, my first kill was an old woman who had cancer. She was going through chemotherapy, and… she tasted awful—bitter, nauseating. After that, I drank from a junkie. He did cocaine, I think. I never felt that sort of rush before. Mycroft stopped me from… well, he found me in a drug den once. Everybody was dead, except me, of course."

"'Course," says John.

"He didn't want me to do that anymore, so I don't. Mycroft is very careful when he chooses his victims." Then, a question that catches John off guard: "I suspect you will be, too, won't you?"

John hesitates. He almost hears a _tick-tock_ in his head. "What?"

Sherlock glances at him. "Was my presumption wrong?"

"Explain your presumption, and then I'll tell you if you're wrong."

Sherlock snorts. "I hardly think I'm wrong," he mumbles. He clears his throat. "Since you are accompanying Mycroft and me, I was under the presumption that Mycroft and you would both be providing blood for me. Previously, I thought you wouldn't kill anybody I told you to, but Mycroft seems to think you've become very loyal to me very fast. If I told you to kill someone, would you?"

It's worrying how quickly John answers. "If you didn't mind, then I would kill someone for you."

That satisfies Sherlock. He returns to his Rubik's Cube, wiggling his toes.

* * *

As the sun turns the sky into mushy pink clouds, Mycroft emerges from his bedroom, a plastic bag hanging from the crook of his elbow. John and Sherlock are still on the floor. John is pointing at the newspaper on the wall, leaned into Sherlock to whisper something to him. Whatever he says makes Sherlock laugh and say, "No, no, it's because he knows I find this all interesting. He's a drama queen."

Mycroft stands in the doorway, listening to laughter and trying very hard not to butt into a conversation he knows is about him. "If you two are quite done giggling, I have things to give you."

Sherlock gets up first. He helps John from the ground, clasping his hand and squeezing. Touches linger, Sherlock's ears turn a rather odd shade of pink, and Mycroft pretends not to notice. "Mobile phones," he says, bringing Sherlock and John's attention to the bag on his arm. Mycroft takes out a box, gives it to Sherlock, and then gives the other to John. "We will need to dispose of your phone, John." At John's ludicrous expression, Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I will dispose of my own, too, John, and I have more valuable information on that device than you will ever know in your lifetime."

Still, John laughs. "Okay," he says, mocking, and opens the box. "Oh, wow, this is nice," he says, and sounds genuine in the process.

Sherlock opens his box. His eyes narrow. "What gave you the impression I would want the rose-gold model?"

Mycroft blinks. "Would you like for me to get you something else, Sherlock?"

"Well, _no_. You already bought it…" Underneath the tough exterior, Mycroft can see Sherlock melting with absolute joy.

"We leave tonight," Mycroft says.

* * *

Two numbers are in John's new phone: Sherlock's and Mycroft's, but that is obvious. He handed Mycroft his old phone as he left this morning, regretting it a bit. Ultimately, he decides it's for the best. "What will happen if someone tries to call it?" he asks.

"Disconnected phone number."

"Are you sure having… these new phones will keep someone from finding us? Won't someone track them?"

"No," Mycroft says. "They won't."

John believes him.

Once inside his flat, John realizes he doesn't know what he should bring. He's moving, soon to be gone without a trace, but surely he must need some items? He wonders if he should text Sherlock, to ask. Holding the new phone in his hands fills him with guilt. It's nice, nicer than everything John can afford right now, but he knows money isn't an object when it comes to Sherlock and Mycroft.

Mike is moving around the sitting room. He had nodded at John when he saw him, and no other contact has been made. John worries if the police will come after Mike, they will accuse him of John's disappearance. Will they even be able to tie John to Sherlock and Mycroft? What about the deaths of Mary and Magnussen?

John falls back onto his bed. He sleeps and dreams of nothing.

* * *

It's eight in the evening when John wakes to a text message from Sherlock.

 _Mycroft didn't dispose of your phone yet. I was snooping through it. Sorry. Anyway, you got a message from Jim Moriarty. He wants to hang out. What do you want me to say?_

 _Tell him to fuck off_ , John replies, _and then tell him I'll meet him wherever he wants to meet. I thought Mycroft said he wasn't able to find him?_

 _Funny how things unfold._ Only seconds pass before John receives another message. _I'm coming with you_.

John wants to tell Sherlock no, but his thumbs have a different response. _Good_.

* * *

John dresses warmly, doing his best to not think each article of clothing he's pulling on will be the ones he keeps, the ones he will disappear in. On his way out, he passes Mike. They nod, keep quiet. Mike understands.

* * *

Jim wants to meet at a gym, at the swimming pool. "That's fucking ridiculous," John says, as he and Sherlock walk together. "Why would they keep the swimming pool open during the winter?"

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock comments. He's smiling. John wants to know what he's so bloody pleased about.

"What are you so bloody pleased about?" John asks.

"You," says Sherlock, and continues to smile.

John finds himself smiling, too.

* * *

John enters alone. He asks Sherlock to come in with him, but Sherlock is gone when he turns his head, and John doesn't know where to start looking. _Besides_ , John thinks, _Jim is waiting_. So, he enters the gym alone. He moves through the gym alone, for there is scarcely anyone here. Two girls are in the fitness room, sprinting on treadmills, but the hallways are empty and, like John predicts, the swimming pool is, too.

Jim is nowhere to be found.

"Great," sighs John, and takes a further step inside. The water in the pool is clear, producing small waves. John stands there, watching the water and wondering as to how long he should stay before leaving. He doesn't plan on staying long, and he doesn't plan to actually hang out with Jim. For one, he wants to know why Jim chose a fucking pool to meet up. Is this some kind of trick? Some kind of joke he had told before when John wasn't listening? John will be the first to admit he typically never paid much attention to Jim Moriarty. His eyes were dark, and they sent the bad sort of shivers down John's spine.

John looks around, up at the ceiling, at the glass windows up there, and then lower, back at the water, at the entrances and exits. The tile flooring is wet, as if some kids actively swam here today and got out without a towel. John carefully steps away, to avoid more puddles, and backs into something soft, something hard. He panics, rightfully so, and turns his head. Jim is there, his eyes still dark and still able to raise goose bumps along John's skin. "Hello," John greets, trying to shove aside his fright. "I was… truly worried you weren't going to show up."

Jim tilts his head. He smells of rot, and he looks at John like he's his next meal.

John sniffs. "Do you smell that? Smells like a graveyard, really."

Placid, Jim tilts his head to the other side. He studies John, eyes going up and down his body. "You know what a graveyard smells like, do you?"

"Oh, yes, visited a lot, hung around… a lot… in my day… which only begs the question, why are we here and not a graveyard? Surely that'll be easier to mask your smell."

"Shut up," Jim says.

"Excuse me?" John says.

"Shut up," Jim repeats.

"Excuse me?" John repeats.

Jim rolls his eyes. "Are we going to do this all night?"

"I am. Are you up to it?"

"Moving on," Jim says, rolling his eyes again, "where's Sherlock?"

John knits his brows together. "What are you talking about?"

Jim makes a noise in his throat, somewhere between annoyed and tired. "Don't play this game with me, John. I know he followed you here."

"He doesn't follow me everywhere."

"You can say that, sure, _yeah_. Go ahead. I won't stop you."

John gathers enough courage to step back. He's able to. Jim only follows with his eyes. "Why are we here?" John asks. "Why are _you_ here? You've been missing for… God, I don't even know how long. Mary was wondering where you were."

And there is it—Jim's face hardens, his jaw sets, all at the mention of Mary.

John continues, "I'm sure you know she's dead now. They told us it was spontaneous combustion."

"But we both know that's not quite true," Jim says through his teeth. He's angry, upset—at John? His hands are in his pockets, but if they were out, John will see fists. "Which one of you did it?"

"Did what?"

"Caught her on fire."

John frowns a little. "She… she did. She wanted to die."

"No, that's not true. One of you killed her—Molly, Mike, maybe even Janine. But no. I think it's _you_. Sherlock bit her, and then you finished his dirty job. Such a shame he isn't here to take some of the credit." Jim is sizing John up, with his eyes, with his body. He's pacing around John now, circles, circles, like a shark. "Sherlock is here, isn't he? I would think he was so distraught by the death of his creator he would seek me out. I'm the next best thing, compared to Magnussen."

"And why would he be distraught?" John runs his fingers along his phone, wrapping his hand around it.

Jim laughs. " _Duh_ , even someone as stupid as you can figure it out."

"Did you want me here because you wanted to fight, Jim? Because I'll fucking fight, if that's what you want." John turns with Jim, his steps cautious, never allowing Jim Moriarty to escape from his sights.

"No, I wanted you here, so you could bring me Sherlock. I do desperately want him. I wanted him before, but he slipped from my grasp. He's such a… vulnerable man. It's a wonder how even you managed to appeal to him. Why would he want someone like you? No offense, but have you taken a good look at yourself today, John? No man like Sherlock would ever want you running away with him."

John's heart pounds in his chest. It's pathetic. All of this is pathetic. He shakes his head. "No, you're wrong."

Jim sticks out his tongue. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Sherlock—"

"Doesn't want you, I _know_."

"—is nothing."

That stops Jim in his tracks. _About time, too_ , John thinks, taking in a slow breath, _I was getting dizzy_.

"Sherlock is nothing?"

"Sherlock is nothing. He has always been nothing, and he will continue to be nothing."

Jim laughs. John takes every harsh thought he had for Mycroft's laugh back and puts it all on Jim. If he is pressured to listen to a laugh on a repeating track for the rest of his life, between Jim's and Mycroft's, John will gladly choose Mycroft's high-pitched, way-too-giddy laughter. Jim's laugh is monotone, dead, still. "If Sherlock is nothing," Jim says, pressing his palms together and grinning brightly, "then what am I?"

John tilts his head this time. He forces a smile. "You're a fucking monster." His fist collides with Jim's nose—an action John doesn't recall doing, but regrets it none. After, his knuckles burn, crack, then bleed, though his heart is racing. John feels as if he's on top of the world.

But then, Jim pushes him into the water.

* * *

John can feel colors. Teal is softer than aquamarine. Navy blue is empty, void of anything reassuring. Ice is gentle, poking his fingers until he can move them again. And periwinkle is the best of them all. It's warm, welcoming, and the first hue John can point out in Sherlock's eyes. He sees the greens next, the grays, even some of the flecks of yellow. They disappear, are replaced with long black lashes, and then they are there again.

As John recovers, he takes in more of Sherlock's face. Specks of blood are along his cheekbones, in his hair, but that doesn't concern John. Sherlock's mouth is stained with even more of the stuff, like a crimson wound. It's frightening to look at, but John leans in, drenches his fingertips with it. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice weak.

"No," Sherlock says, "I don't want you to taste his blood."

John remembers to shiver now. He's cold, dripping wet with water. His eyes burn from the chlorine. His throat is hoarse. He screamed when he fell into the water, continued to scream when the water filled his lungs. "Am I dead?" he asks.

"No," Sherlock says. They're sitting on the floor, in front of each other. From where John is, he can see a pool of blood mixing with the water that continues to fall off him.

John forces another shiver. "How long was I under there?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know. Can you stand?"

"Yes."

Sherlock helps him anyway. John can see better now.

Jim is the owner of the pool of blood, his clothes ripped, his skin missing huge chunks. Bite marks are everywhere. They are already starting to heal, to hide away any traces of Sherlock's teeth imprints.

"How weak are you?"

"I'm all right."

"He's still alive." Sherlock gestures to Jim, where he lies, a smile on his face, his eyes vacant and dull. He looks very much like Magnussen. Sherlock stands over Jim, propping his body by the edge of the swimming pool. Jim doesn't fight it. He is extremely malleable.

"Do you mind?" John walks over to them, where Sherlock is holding Jim's head up by his hair.

Sherlock looks at John. "Not at all."

John's foot connects with Jim's body. There's a loud crack, a snap, and a stuttered gasp. They are strong. Jim falls into the water. From where Sherlock's fingers are still tightly twisted in Jim's hair, his head remains above water, still kept in Sherlock's grasp like _David with the Head of Goliath_. His lips are gone, parted, frozen in a stunned silence. His eyes are dead. Sherlock's eyes are full of life. He sets Jim's head on the tile flooring, in the pool of blood, in the water puddles.

"Our heads don't grow back," Sherlock says. "We heal incredibly fast, but our heads can't grow back. That's one way to kill us."

"And fire," John says.

"And fire," Sherlock agrees.

"And a wooden stake through the heart," John says.

Sherlock glares at John, but he laughs. He laughs and laughs, and John laughs with him.

"Come on." Sherlock takes his hand. "Mycroft will need to know of this."

"I'm surprised he doesn't already!"

They laugh and run, and John doesn't need to catch his breath.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade drinks coffee, trying his damndest not to laugh as the moving truck driver is escorted away by other officers. Sally is on his right, drinking from her own cup, much better at concealing her glee.

"He was getting on my nerves," she says, once they are alone.

"Mine, as well. The look on his face, though, right when you said he was being charged with possession of child pornography! Seemed like he was bloody surprised."

"Serves him right." Sally grins, her cheeks glowing. "Now, are you interviewing the next one?"

"You can. I need to see what I can do about the guy's dog."

Sally scrunches her nose. "Dog? He didn't have a dog."

"He said he had a dog—an Irish Setter."

"Searched his place, and he didn't have a dog."

Greg chuckles. "Why would he lie about that?"

"No clue."

* * *

"And who did you give tickets to?" Sally asks, her mood pleasant and refreshing with this new interrogation.

"A man. He was wearing a suit."

"Men wear suits. How was this strange?"

"It wasn't strange. I'm just telling you he was wearing a suit. He had two other men with him."

"Were they wearing suits?"

"No, they were wearing sensible clothing. They gave off a… bad aura, is all. And with all the murders going about, I thought they were suspicious."

Sally nods. "Were they people of color?"

The man's eyes widen. "No. No, and I wasn't implying that they had to be to be suspicious."

Sally grins. "I should hope so."

Greg catches Sally after the questioning. "Did he say who it was? Did we catch them?"

"No. He sold tickets to three men. We're looking for a man and a woman, remember?" Sally frowns. "Do you think they left the country?"

Greg throws his hands up. "It'll be just our luck, wouldn't it?"

* * *

It's daytime when they get off the train. Sherlock and John stand underneath an umbrella as Mycroft purchases another set of tickets. They're hopping trains. John's never been this happy in his life.

Once in a compartment, Mycroft leaves Sherlock and John alone, informing them he will be back "in a moment". John hasn't stopped smiling. "Where is our final destination?" he asks, watching Sherlock pull coverings over the windows to block out the sunlight. "I don't think we've discussed it before."

"I'm not sure." Sherlock sits down in the seat across from John. "How do you feel about Sweden?"

"Only if we're going to Blackeberg."

Sherlock considers it, resting his head on his hand as he leans on an armrest. "Maybe not there. It really depends on Mycroft and the amount of legwork he wants to do to make sure we're both happy and healthy."

John snorts. Sherlock laughs, too. Mycroft enters their compartment, immediately narrowing his eyes at them. "I have a flat ready for you two when we arrive."

"Where are we going?" John asks.

"Where will you be?" Sherlock asks.

"It's a surprise, and don't worry, I will always be close." Mycroft ducks into the hallway, then returns. In his hand, a leash, and attached at the end of it, is a dog. It's the same one John and Sherlock met when they visited the moving truck driver. Like last time, the dog smiles and wags its tail. Like last time, all four of the dog's paws are wrapped in mittens. After a gentle bark, the dog hops onto the seat beside Sherlock. "He needed a home," Mycroft explains, "and I know how much you love dogs, Sherlock."

The dog licks Sherlock's face. Sherlock hugs him around the neck, tight, full of joy. John stares at him, soft, with a small smile and eyes that never waver. "How come dogs don't attack? Cats do, but dogs don't."

"Because," Sherlock says, after kissing the top of the dog's head, "cats are untrustworthy and too prideful. Dogs, however, have always been man's best friend."

Mycroft takes the seat next to John and pulls out his phone. John gives a slight shake of his head. "But you aren't a man."

"Yes." Sherlock scratches the dog behind his ears. "I am no man."


End file.
